For The Worse
by Penrose Quinn
Summary: Perhaps, it would have been the best choice if she did not try to stop a stranger from committing suicide because little did she know that unknowingly saving a detective costed her a wayward turn to her plans. [HIATUS]
1. Chapter 1

**Revised: 7/24/17**

* * *

 _It wasn't so much that I was afraid of the place itself,_

 _but I was afraid of the creatures who masqueraded as people._

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 **Chapter 01:** **What had to be done**

* * *

Rush. Nothing felt more incredible than the pleasant sensation of adrenaline in her veins.

Sun on her face, wind in her hair, the growl of an engine, as she steered her motorbike, zipping on the road, moving past those cold-shelled, lagging cars and railroad terminals with cool ease. She liked it—no, she _loved_ it. And maybe, carelessly so as she unashamedly drove past the traffic jam, boasting each vehicle of her mobility and acceleration.

Her job had been simple enough; delivering packages and whatnot. Courier life hadn't been the first occupation she particularly considered at first nor was it the most orthodox of jobs to be in, but as long as the salary was enough to have her pay her rent monthly it was worth the effort. Besides, she liked the rush that her motorbike always gave her.

But perhaps, the reason why she was so fond of her current livelihood was that it was completely _mundane_.

She finally stepped on the brake, maneuvering her motorbike at a nearby parking lot. Her day had been like a routine of sorts—ejecting of keys, unpacking a package, and followed by the typical polite exchanges, signing of receipts, and off she went.

The package was particularly smaller than the last one, considering that size had been best for either clothing or accessory. After all, the customer had been a woman. _An office clerk_ , she thought, judging from the towering edifice and the sophisticated air teeming about. The moment she entered she had begun to accomplish her ministrations, just as simple as dusting off her leather jacket after a ride.

It was a bit more gratifying when she exited from the building. She disliked the stuffiness of offices. As much as she would gladly take her leave, it was beyond her expectations to spot a distant figure in that said building. On its roof. What had drawn her for the most part was that the figure was not just a random post or some sort of object flung on the railing. It was a man. Now, that wasn't right.

Of course, it was none of her business and neither did she have some sliver of compassion for strangers she barely met, even more so when she had just seen. Though what made her charge herself back into the building and make up some sort of excuse that she had forgotten addressing another receipt for signage was because of the fact that she opposed suicide. Even if she had to drag the reckless man back, she would rather have it personally done than witness all the senseless tragedy itself.

Suicide was an insult. A middle finger for the hardworking and the regretting. Tossing life aside because of some flimsy excuse that reality had been unbearably overwhelming was something she didn't take lightly just as most of the masses did. She could have just told one of the guards or at least one of their clerks of her recent sighting, but the attention could further goad him to kill himself or either way it could be too late. Police often came belatedly. In her case, she was certainly not in the position to meddle in some stranger's dilemma and she knew her boundaries though it had been better talking some sense to one.

It amazed her, really. How no one had seen him yet, grasping the railings, gandering below in silent rumination. Like the world's just on its knees. The gale was strong and frisky once she opened the door, which was carelessly open and unguarded for suicidal individuals, messing even her short, bleached-blond hair. She adjusted her blue-tinted glasses, glaring upon his back as he stood motionless at the edge. She padded forward and halted an arm's length away from him the moment he began to speak.

"Here and then I've thought I found a perfect spot to commit suicide without rousing too much attention."

She merely raised a brow at him but said nothing as he rambled on.

He sighed in dismay, followed by a glum drop of his head. "A shame, too. But then again, this place seems far too lonesome and quiet to fall off, don't you think?"

"I find it a pitiful place to die," she stated, humoring him her frank opinion. "What are you thinking about?"

He chuckled. And it was strangely lively and amused, for a man who supposedly wanted to meet his finality. "You see a man about to commit suicide and that's the first thing you ask me. It should be obvious, should it not?"

She frowned. Not only from his peculiarity but also from his notion. "Well, if any suicidal person were in your position, they could have just chosen to fall off already. I came here later than expected but here you still are, suspended in your position," she elaborated phlegmatically. "If there's anything on your mind right now, it would be hesitation. Or at least, something that's making you hesitate."

"You're perceptive, I'll give you that," he remarked and she could almost feel an amused smile from that pleased tone of his. "I admit that I've delayed a bit but I was rather contemplating whether I should fall off the building or drown in a nearby river instead. It's difficult to decide what kind of suicide suits me best but, of course, the choice always depends on which death is least painful."

Sighing, she deadpanned, "The decision should be simple. Both are painful thus terrible choices."

He paused for a moment, probably discriminating his hand-picked choices of suicide.

"Well, falling off a building should be quick and easy."

"But there's the possibility of you somehow managing to survive."

"Hm, then again dying from drowning sounds rather poetic."

"Aside from the former, drowning is an excruciatingly slow process."

"You're a peculiar woman."

She resisted the caprice to scoff. "Am I now?"

Just as the evening wind swept by, she heard scuffing from the concrete wall and the soft flap of his coat. To her dismay, he did no such thing as to separate himself from his recent position, from behind the railing which he was unfearfully growing more comfortable to be in. He turned aptly to face her. Instead of a firm grip, he was casually leaning on the railing, subject on pursuing their talk. "Often when strangers find me committing suicide, expectantly they do their best to stop my actions." He offered a genial smile at the notion.

He was curious of her, she could tell. If it wasn't apparent from his words, it glistened from his eyes.

She cocked her brow. "You've attempted this before?"

His head tilted, musing. "Yes, plenty of times," he said. "Alas each attempt failed."

"Well, I'm discouraging you."

Her intent didn't particularly upset him. Actually, he appeared to be genuinely intrigued. "Then again you do seem relatively calm about it. Is it a habit of yours conversing with suicidal men?"

When he had uttered it, it didn't feel like a taunt. It was more like a speculation. Perhaps, it had been the mild, affable tone of his voice that didn't render her irked. Although she would admit that he did have a point about her having a propensity in conversation to unwholesome company. Of course, she wouldn't openly divulge it to the likes of him.

"Not particularly," she professed. "If you must know, I prefer conversing to another person from the other side of the railing."

His lips simply quirked at her response upon perceiving the gist of why she had spoken it in the first place. But he wasn't in the mood of complying to her bidding just yet. "Ah, but the view is quite lovely from here," he let his eyes wander in awe on the cityscape in spite of the alarmingly nightmarish height and the morbid, cobbled pavement that he had better off label as his grave, if he so urged to meet an early demise.

Although his flippancy manifested upon his face, in that convincingly devil-may-care smile of his, he had never been fathomable. She prided herself for possessing a trained eye and an adept scrutiny. And more often than not it was not that difficult ascertaining the character of a suicidal mind yet his remained as a conundrum. If there was anything to confirm from him, he was always mulling deeply. She noticed it from that distinct, far-off look in his eyes. In the very way he spoke and acted. As if he wasn't even there.

And perhaps, he detected her own suppositions of him as well. Leaning casually, he sighed under his breath. "You really are stopping me."

"One may say I'm doing you a favor," she shrugged in blithe nonchalance. "But I'd like to think that I'm sparing you from hospital bills."

"Though you're not the most inspiring of sorts," he remarked, almost nearing a criticism. "Not even a prep talk about the wonders of life?"

He laughed at his own jape.

Her brow twitched in annoyance. "It appears you like to stall."

He lifted his shoulders in an unabashed shrug. "I do fancy a nice distraction," he confessed, flashing a winsome smile at her. "The company of a beautiful woman always does the trick."

She simply disregarded his compliment. "You're a man without friends, aren't you?"

"Well, I do have some friends back at the Agency."

"You mean one of the clerks down here?"

"Oh? No, not at all. I don't work here."

She didn't bother questioning him about that.

He was an absolute eccentric. That served as a good reason enough.

Before she could voice out any opinions of her own, she then realized that their exchanges had simply been productive in prolonging their unusual confab and had done less to render the outcome she had wanted. The sun was setting, bordering dusk. But most importantly, she was late. There were still affairs that had to be prioritized that surmounted each vain attempt in convincing a suicidal man.

Although this confrontation had been nothing more but an inconvenience, she wasn't entirely concerned if she retarded for awhile on a roof with an even more enigmatic stranger. Diversion had been an enticing thing and often passed by with so much to offer.

"Say, I didn't quite catch your name."

She blinked, not skipping a beat. "I don't really think it's necessary."

His brow quirked ever so slightly. His curiosity has yet to wear off him. "Frankly, it'd be a shame," his head tipped to the side, his thumb cupping his chin sagely. "It would be nice to know the name of the last person I have ever spoken to. Or possibly my savior."

Pulling her leather jacket closer to her, she casually stuffed her hands on its pockets. "I'm fine being tagged as a stranger," she said blatantly. It was a poor excuse and her utterance may have not been the most credible but she preferred to be nameless. The prospect of meeting him again in the future was rather bleak and far-fetched. "But if it appeases you, you can call me by any name. Or guess my name, if you will. I'll warn you, though. I won't hint anything."

Then his lips curved pleasingly. "You seem to fancy anonymity."

She shrugged. "There's still thrill in guessing, isn't there?"

"Perhaps. Nevertheless, I'll humor you," he reiterated insouciantly. "Well, you do strike me as . . . Mariko. Or maybe Natsuko. Is that close enough?"

 _Close._

Gracing him an offhanded smile, she said vaguely, "Nice try."

He dipped his head and gave her an accepting nod. He smiled at the genuine gesture. "I wouldn't mind hiding my name from you as you did but I'm not the sort to introduce myself anonymously," he admitted. "I'm Osamu Dazai."

"Dazai," she repeated thoughtfully, as if testing the name, as it rolled off her tongue. "You know, you shouldn't have."

It would have been better if he didn't. Though if they had lived in different circumstances and in a more suitable setting, she wouldn't have minded personally keeping in touch with him. He seemed like an interesting person. But the less people she met, the less burden she had to go through with their involvement in her life. The risk of it always had inevitable consequences.

Shrugging, he added, "Consider it as a keepsake."

A keepsake, hm?

"For wha— _what_ are you doing?"

His brows rose from the change of tone in her voice. One hand grappled at the railing while he leaned back. He was barely dangling.

Dazai gestured at his actions. "This? I've considered to die here, as I planned earlier."

Unbelievable. Crossing her arms, she frowned at his admittance. "So you decide to disregard my intentions?"

He stared at her innocently. "Yes."

It had to be some sort of joke. If it was, it wasn't funny.

Yet how could she know?

When an indecipherable man like him seemed so willing to commit suicide for a reason beyond her comprehension.

Still, she also resolved to defy his wishes. And he'll thank her for it.

He was still wearing that freewheeling smile of his, gazing below as if the consequences unfazed him. His feet edging closer to empty space. His grasp loosening. Death captivated him, lured him. He flicked his eyes at her for a brief second, wringing out her thoughts, scrutinizing her intently. Impatient and racked to her nerves, she utterly disliked the fact that he still had the gall to grin at her like a child. Then was it really just a joke after all? Did he really possess such a morbid sense of humor for the sake of seeing her bawl out?

It was the moment when his fingers released the railing.

And she, impetuously inclined to act, lunged forward in urgency. As he leaned back near the railing, he stood still. He didn't fall. It had been a morbid joke. Because his smile was still intact, a very telling smile at that. His eyes gleamed in what appeared to be in state of sickeningly immature amusement. He opened his mouth, about to reveal his intentions to pacify her down. And as much as she wanted to simply drag him by the collar to conclude this mishap, it had been too late when she began to close in on him. Cutting his sentence short before it had been enunciated completely.

When their eyes met. And a spate of power uncoiled within her.

From her abrupt movements her blue-tinted glasses slid off her face, tumbling on the ground.

" _Stop!_ "

And he stopped.

Just as she said.

He stared at her. Thunderstruck. Petrified.

She felt everything all at once. Confusion. Alarm. Suspicion. His emotions and thoughts had rung like knells inside her head, bellowing in great magnitude each moment she unintentionally pervaded further in the deep recesses of his mind. Vague snippets of memories stormed upon her head, all dark and gruesome and despicable. Gunfire and carnage. A doctor slitting the throat of a bedridden man. A boy metamorphosing into a savage tiger.

A vertigo reigned over her head. The process had always been nauseating and unforgiving.

Especially when such power was consequently deflected with a horrid side effect.

She _despised_ this ability.

Cold sweat beaded on her forehead. Resting her hand on her temples, she groaned in pain. Specifically, she eagerly wanted to lurch forward and retch the bile rising on her throat. Those horrid images—no, his memories or at least what she had seen so far were too wretched for one to stomach. Frankly, she still couldn't perceive what she did see. Nor have accepted them. He didn't look like a murderer. But her ability always contradicted her own perspective. It always made her see the things she didn't want to see.

Swallowing a breath, she looked at him. Felt the concern from his eyes and the cautious alert at the back of his head.

"Get back inside here. Away from the railing."

She used it again. Admittedly, she had to lest he was frozen in that position for who-knows-when.

She bent down to swipe her glasses. Wiping them gingerly with the back of her gloved hand, she adjusted them back on the bridge of her nose. Biting her tongue, she tamped the urge to groan as she felt another throe rupture her mind. She felt herself reel from her movements for awhile, galumphing each effort to compose herself. _Endure it._

"You're an ability-user."

 _Shit_ , she cursed. It occurred to her that he witnessed her using this ability and the thought greatly bothered her. It was too dangerous for someone to know what she could do. Focusing her attention on him, she couldn't determine the look in his eyes, but she was sure of one thing. There was certainty within them. And whatever that certainty was, no matter if it was for a good or bad end, she would always deem it as an adversity.

Indifferently disregarding his statement, she cleared her throat and reiterated, "I should leave." She turned around and treaded forward to the door hastily, shirking him like a runaway. As long as he didn't have any sort knowledge about her, she was fine. She was safe. And this whole misfortune of a meeting can be treated of as some sort of misunderstanding—easily forgotten and taken care of.

He should pose no threat. He had _nothing_ against her.

"Ah—hey, wait!"

He trailed behind her as she hurried down the stairs. She opted to avoid him in hopes of losing his tracks on her, though much to her dismay, he didn't stray away, following her like a bloodhound on its lead, even after exiting out of the vicinity. And in spite of his prompting and inquiry, he persevered in reaching out to her. And his purposes in doing so was beyond her because it could be anything. Information. Money. Reason.

She considered the latter but it didn't matter all the same.

A vexed sigh left her mouth. She finally halted. "Leave me alone."

He replied behind her, "I would if you would just listen."

She mused deeply of his words. But to trust him was still up to debate.

Turning around to face him, she crossed her arms. "What?"

"I want to compensate."

—

Without reservation, she downed her glass with one swig and judging from the fervency upon her eyes she was intent on downing another glass from reckless impulse.

Although she accepted his invitation, it was certain that she had done so in reluctance. Yet in spite of her patent aversion, the mention of bar and alcohol did manage to make her comply more willingly than he anticipated. Quite frankly, it was the best option he would rather take, knowing that alcohol was capable of mellowing her down and had been the simplest means of extracting information.

She was tightlipped, keenly cautious in keeping her secrets. Most likely, he could tell she was reticent and hardboiled and her appearance had only given it away. If there was anything that described her, it would be black and intimidating. Her attire had been no more but an array of black and denim that it had almost defined her like a second nature. Dazai concluded it was probably true.

He heard her sigh exasperatedly. "Do stop analyzing me."

He didn't object her accusation. Lifting his glass, he drank coolly. "Would you like another glass?"

"No," she lowered her head, eyes trained on her half-empty whiskey. "I don't plan to stay long."

In other words, she was hellbent in hightailing him. Disappearing in sight. From lack of knowledge of her identity and account, she was untraceable and would likely blend in a crowd of strangers with ease. It would be troublesome. Especially having to pry her without indicating her of his objective. And as much as he disliked handling taxing cases, he could never deny his growing enthusiasm of the matter.

The more obstructive she was, the more difficult it had to be done. It excited him. The thought of an indefinite outcome was rather thrilling. He liked a challenge and whenever had he obliged to decline? There was unbridled potential in those eyes framed with blue-tinted shades. Like him, she, too, understood that failure was never an option.

Stone-faced, she had almost finished her drink and was now staring on the lined rows of liquor bottles as if it piqued her. She didn't, really. Nothing in particular fascinated her.

Dispelling the silence between them, he began, "I find it curious," his fingers played with his glass and her concentration wavered. "I failed to ask you why you tried to stop my suicide attempt. Would you enlighten me?"

She curved her brow questioningly. "My reason is obvious, isn't it?" she quipped, quoting his previous words.

It felt like a retaliation for earlier but he dismissed it as straightforwardness. He shrugged. "An excuse such as to save another life is rather redundant."

She finally looked at him. "Do you expect me to embellish the truth?"

He ceased his fiddling and leaned at her. "No. You don't look like the sort," he uttered, letting his eyes inspect her, which she reckoned with displeasure. "However I find you as a person with an entirely different perspective. A different motive."

She regarded his nuances with a phlegmatic front, maintaining the image of aloofness. Honestly, she was good at it. All the more reason he wanted to break that facade. See the human beneath all that composure.

After expiring a sigh, her mouth opened. "Insight."

Dazai blinked. "Really?"

Her gloved hand reached for her glass, flourishing the remaining golden liquor out of whim. The gaze upon her eyes was heady and salient, even behind those drab blue-tinted glasses, but most importantly she didn't lie. She averted her eyes from him, staring down at what she held. "I'm not sure," she muttered, uncertain, "because the conclusion will always wound up the same either way. I won't see things as you do." This time, she was babbling to herself, fussing over some inner conflict he couldn't relate with.

Capturing the glass to her lips, she drank in silent reflection. "I can't see the appeal of death."

 _And what do you see in death?_ He was tempted to ask, but pushed aside the question before it ever escaped his mouth. Evidently, she wasn't intrigued in such matter. Even her very utterance sounded grim, as if it left a bitter taste in her tongue. Though, the thought of death seemed to haunt her—prompted her to seek it, grasp its purpose.

"Reprieve."

In a fraction, her eyes pulsed wide from the word. She was unable to recuperate for a few seconds.

He continued on, "There is reprieve in finality. A reprieve which is unsullied by life."

It was unintentional. He didn't mean to share his opinions but, perhaps, satisfying her with this bit of knowledge granted her that insight she wanted. He wasn't too sure it would change her sentiment after admitting her disinterest. Deciding to no longer entertain the thought, he drank capriciously, washing his tongue with refreshing ale.

"Reprieve, hm," she remarked softly. If their circumstances were different, she might have smiled at the saying. "It's a pleasant thing."

A pregnant silence loomed between them.

"Are you not . . . going to ask what happened earlier?"

Hesitance. _Doubt_. That question weighed upon her lips, but he felt that there were more words lingering at the back of her tongue. Words he would love to explicit. But she was careful, too careful. He felt her prodding as if she penetrated inside his mind, testing him.

He smiled disarmingly. "You were in no disposition to speak about it so I respected your decision," he said in his usual, congenial tone. "But would you mind if I do?"

She paused for a moment. Thinking.

"No," she deadpanned. "I'm not going to answer anything."

Ah. That was rather disappointing. He pried further, "Then why bring up the question?"

The woman in question placed down her glass, reverberating a dull thud on the wooden bar stand. She left him in a moment of suspension. Some part of him acquired a growing anticipation. Some part of him sensed an unnerving alarm.

In a low, suspecting voice, she said, "It's because you're unbothered," she glared at him calmly. "And it would appear that you have an idea as to what ability-users are when generally most of the public has no knowledge of such existence."

Unaffected, Dazai merely took it as a warning. No more but a minuscule matter. Perhaps, it lacked a bit of bite but he gave it a pass. "You don't beat around the bush," he grinned yet the curl upon his lips was more knowing and amused than obnoxiously blithe. He leaned boldly and grasped her hand, as if to reach out in congenial terms. "But you don't have to be afraid."

Smiling, he whispered conspiratorially, "I am an ability-user myself."

Her brows rose. "You are?"

"I want to hire you," he proposed, giving her hand a light squeeze.

He began, "I work for the Armed Detective Agency," he showed her his detective license from his pocket for validation. "It's a private government organization that specializes in administering specific cases and it also admits ability-users for such purpose. You're perceptive. Although I think you'll still need a little practice, you possess an extraordinary ability nonetheless. I'm certain you'll qualify in."

She blinked owlishly, registering his words.

Returning back to her senses, she cleared her throat. "That's a nice offer," she replied curtly, considering. "But I'm not interested."

A sigh then left her lips, long and thoughtful. Bothered. There was a grave look upon her gaze—as if she made her final decision. A decision which she patently regarded with dissatisfaction. Her words were slow and articulated clearly. "Actually, I'd prefer it if you," her hand slowly took off her blue-tinted glasses, exposing her pale gray eyes.

" _Forget we ever met_."

Silence.

He would admit, though. Her eyes were such a striking sight. Though what appealed him in such way was not based on appearance but of something invisible and compelling.

Power.

An irresistible and corrupting power resided in those eyes.

It was just as he theorized. He made two possible deductions after offering her a job proposition, his lure; one, if she was to acquiesce. The other was this exact scenario. Resorting to such underhanded tactics, she wasn't just afraid of the thought that someone discovered that she had been an ability-user, but judging from her recent actions, his involvement with the government further spurred her to quickly settle this affair. Interesting. He wondered if she participated in illegal activities.

Dawning upon her that the conclusion didn't meet her expectations, she was utterly shell-shocked. He took note of the flabbergast in her features. Remembering each detail satisfyingly. It was priceless.

He smirked slyly. His index finger tapped the back of her hand as if to assure her that he wasn't the slightest bit influenced by her mind control. His thumb brushed the skin beneath her wrist, feeling her erratic pulse quicken each second. Then he noticed something else.

There was another thing which he liked about those eyes—her unshakable defiance.

* * *

 **A/N:** This was unintentional. By that I mean, I did not expect to write for this fandom but, well, I did. Putting that aside, thank you for those who read this story!

Now this is where I start my blabbering ( which I don't mind if you skipped)...

First of all, I hope you bear with me because the author I used for my character is, well, a contemporary writer. She lived in the mid-1900s, unlike most canon characters whose authors mostly lived in the late 1800s to early 1900s. But this author just so happens to perfectly fit the qualities I need for the character and the story so I went along with it, and aside from that she offers a nice different perspective in the crime genre. Sadly, I can't share her name yet but you'll know it eventually.

Second, I've been itching to write a crime or mystery story for awhile now. Since BSD gives me that opportunity, I'm taking advantage of it. Is this going to follow canon? Nope. It's AU.

Third, forgive me if I've somehow managed to make Dazai OOC because even his character is a mystery to me. Regarding his ability in this story, although not fully clarified yet in the canon he can only use his ability on skin-on-skin contact. Well, in this story at least. As for my OC's ability, it would be fully elaborated in the next chapter, since she unintentionally managed to affect him.

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 **Disclaimer: I do not own Bungou Stray Dogs**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 02:** **What should be kept**

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"You . . ."

Nothing happened, that much was clear. Such a thing wasn't possible.

She was certain that she used her ability, manipulating it more successfully than most of her failed endeavors. It wasn't like her last attempt, which had been nothing more but an accident. Something was amiss. And yet just as much as her apprehension took over her, there was the faint feeling of relief at the back of her mind. The thought that he wasn't affected—that she could not use her ability was something she privately, eagerly, desired.

She felt human.

But the predicament at hand was something she should concern first, alongside with the fact that she'd been staring at him for quite some time. The delay felt inappropriate, at least for her standards. But his smile had been distracting in a sense that it was indecipherable. Something about it aggravated her, affronted her. Narrowing, her eyes lingered at him then to the hand that grasped her wrist. Although the gesture was to express assurance, his touch was cold on her skin. Even the mere brush of his thumb hadn't been the most pleasing sensation.

There was something off about him. Then it occurred to her that he admitted that he was an ability-user.

". . . are able to negate my ability," she confirmed thoughtfully, sighing after. "Mind letting me go?"

Pleased of her speculation, he still kept that smile intact. Amused as ever. "Self-defense," he said. "Although equally useless, it is rather convenient in this kind of situation. After all, you used your ability on me."

A tad annoyed, she sighed again. "Well, it didn't work."

Dazai interjected, "I exercise precaution."

"We're a few inches apart," she gestured his secure grip on her hand. "I can . . . settle for a compromise."

His brow arched curiously. It didn't take long for him to detect her insecurity, especially with his vigilance still pinned on her. She did no such thing as to hide it from him either way. He gave her a long, discriminating look for five agonizing seconds. Sighing softly, he finally nodded in agreement, respecting her request as he liberated her hand from his grasp and kept his folded atop his lap. Placid and genteel, as any good, law-abiding man should.

Although grateful of his acquiescence, she merely disregarded his politeness and amiability in their current predicament. It had been no more but a façade after all. Her fingers touched the skin beneath her wrist, scrutinizing it as if it was injured. She still remembered the unnatural icy touch of his hand. _Like that of a dead man_ , she thought. She mused silently to herself if some traces of his power were still left on her skin, ceasing her from using her own ability. If her situation was not so dire, she wouldn't have minded it.

He chuckled. "Is my touch really that repulsive?" he commented jokingly. "I can't recall that kind of reaction when I held hands with others."

Releasing her wrist, she stared at him questioningly. "Others?"

His disposition didn't waver in the slightest. He still wore his smile. As deceiving and bright as it was, she noticed it grow rather strained.

Without a hitch in his voice, he kindly reasoned himself. "Other women," he cleared his throat. "Acquaintances, of course."

She would have opted ignoring his words but some brazen part of her decided to humor him. "Impressive," she remarked in a dry, patronizing voice. "Though I can't say much for myself. I suppose I'm not one for bold approaches though really it's not the matter of preferences but it's just that I find you a disconcerting man."

Taunting him was the least thing she expected to do, but she had done it anyway, just as oblivious as he was after uttering the jab. She wouldn't have minded apologizing to him though the timing didn't seem appropriate. She meant what she said after all. However, much to her surprise, he didn't seem offended by her words. Perhaps, his smile may have wavered but it didn't diminish completely, still holding all its charm and enigma.

Unable to repress a chuckle, he replied, "Disconcerting? We barely even know each other."

 _I know more than you think_ , was what she wanted to say but decided it wasn't the wisest choice to opt.

She shrugged. "Doesn't mean I'm not allowed to judge you," she returned slyly. "Most of the time I'm always right."

 _I know you're a danger to me._

He must have comprehended what she meant. After all, he seemed sharp enough to perceive her own subtleties. He didn't respond back.

Wearing his knowing smile, Dazai said in amiable, measured tones, "I've discovered two things about you," he raised one finger to endorse his statement. "One, you are only able to use your ability when you articulate it."

He raised another finger. "Two, this," his slender hand gingerly took hold of her blue-tinted glasses from the bar stand, "hinders your ability, doesn't it? That's because your ability requires direct eye-contact. Correct?"

She quelled her mouth from replying back. There was no reason objecting these facts if they were true. Though she won't give him the satisfaction of saying a yes. Her silence had been enough confirmation for his analysis.

Dipping his head, he laughed under his breath. Not the jeering sort, she believed. It looked too genuinely _blithe_. "And in spite all of that, I still don't know your name."

Retrieving back her glasses from him, she placed them back in place. "I prefer keeping it that way."

"I recall we are to be in a compromise."

He gazed at her solemnly, boring his eyes on her. Gouging out her private musings. Perhaps, she had underestimated him in some aspects, believing she couldn't take such an eccentric man seriously. He knew when to act professional and intimidating when he must and she was apparently a victim of this disposition of his. After awhile, she realized she disliked his eyes—the way it felt cold and calculating. Though the most bothering fact was that it was indecipherable, like bottomless pits. Nothing could be sought within them.

She steeled her nerves, refusing to succumb to defeat. "We are," she answered. "But the bargain didn't involve my compliance to give any sort of information. My name including."

Then it came with a few simple words from his lips. His reply. His cause.

"You're dangerous."

If his words were bullets, they triggered straight to her chest. Taking his words to heart, she impulsively stood from her seat. Offended.

"I _won't_ —" she caught herself before the words spilled from her lips, the words she meant to say, words like a promise. Yet even unspoken they hung beneath her tongue, echoing just as loud from the depths of her silence.

 _I won't hurt anyone._

Because she knew even if she had uttered it, she can never be so certain to keep it.

Noticing the curious glances of some customers, she minutely sat down and pacified her own temper. Her outburst came without warning and she hoped that they would simply dismiss it as some small misunderstanding and be over with it. The attention was discomforting. As she stared at the man in front of her, he was just as surprised as she was.

She sighed, desperately wanting another glass of whiskey or a bottle. Intoxication felt like the best remedy right now.

Brushing aside the whim, she cleared her throat. "Just tell me what you want with me."

Dazai blinked and then thoughtfully went back to business, dismissing her outburst. His hands intertwined on his lap, his pointer finger tapping. "Just as I've said, I want to hire you."

Subtly rejecting his proposition, she retaliated, "I'm already employed."

Raising his brows in intrigue, he queried, "If I may inquire, to where?"

 _Like I'd tell you._ She resisted the urge to snort. "I'm a courier."

"Then I believe you should reconsider."

"No," she said firmly. "I won't accept your offer."

It was his turn to sigh, frustration conflating in his prolonged breaths. His head bent down, almost deflated. "And I suppose you wouldn't tell me the reason why you are so determined to decline," his tone was simply rhetorical. "Honestly, you're a difficult woman."

Her chin involuntarily tipped high from the slight satisfaction over bilking him. "There's no reason to pursue me," she pressed. "If there is a determined one from the two of us, it would be you."

Leaning casually from the palm of his hand, he chuckled. "You think so?" he asked, staring directly through her eyes despite its consequences. "If I recall, I believe you tried to erase my memories of you awhile ago."

Her lips pressed together in a thin, grim line. "I don't trust you."

"I told you I work for a government agency," he reasoned in that assuring tone, but all the assurance she needed was to stay away from him. "Isn't there anything more assuring than to know you are in the presence of a detective?"

"Validation doesn't necessarily gain one's trust," she fenced back, "or safety."

"True, but that isn't the case at the matter at hand," he intoned, serious. "My proposition is not a literal request."

Her hands fisted, feeling her nails dig deeper on her gloves, biting through her palms. "Don't I have the right to make my own decisions?"

He still had the gall to smile. "Technically, you do," he replied with a flippant shrug. "But you have no say in this one. I don't particularly fancy forcing a woman though I must apprehend you if I have to."

Her face hardened. Apprehension took the best of her.

There was no other way out of this. He got her cornered. It's not like she could immediately use her ability on anyone. They were just a few centimeters apart and he could just touch her and get away with it. It would be a desperate attempt for her part if she struggled to fight him. And just the thought of losing what little dignity she has was not worth the effort.

Riveting her attention, he added, "But I'll give you another option."

She looked at him. "What option?"

"Tell me your name."

—

Dazai was generally lounging on a sofa, idling without a care.

He found himself utterly unmotivated and tedious, in contrast of the Agency which bristled with life and vigor in its day-to-day mundanities. He even considered hanging himself in the building about a minute ago but his enthusiasm suddenly sapped out of him before he even begun.

 _It's too easy_ , he thought. Yet also patently contrived that it felt so frustrating and engrossing all the same. He ferreted her identity, which was by far the simplest research he has ever dealt with. History, school records, relations— _all of it_. Everything related about her was too prosaic that his gut instinct knew it was incredulous. With that kind of ability, he wouldn't be surprised if she ever did clear her real name from existence.

Though what he stressed the most about her was the fact that she was still a mystery.

He had information about her filed in a single manilla folder on his desk. He scoured for any sort of fault, devoted to it, not limiting even the slightest eccentricity he had come across in her records. He had her _name_. Whether it had been an alias or not, he still had something to use against her. _Yet still . . ._ He couldn't pin her down, still managing to slip from his fingers.

The tension in him drove him mad beyond the carefree facade he put up everyday. Some part of him wanting to delve deeper about this woman and disclose every nasty truth about her. He regarded it as a challenge and he took it seriously. He was far from ever conceding at this point and when had he ever had? Perhaps, that was the other issue. Because beneath the innocent trail of lies that concealed her true self, there was an underlying danger within it. He knew it. He felt it, bone deep. A familiar kind, that bloodcurdling shock that sent a pleasant shiver down his spine.

And he couldn't help but admit how he loved the sensation of it.

Dazai was staring straight at the wall for hours. It was simply maddening.

He could hear the bustle in the room as the scent of dark coffee and air fresheners wafted in the air. Flicking of paperwork, clacking of heels, casual chitchat . . . the mundane things. Even the monotonous, almost robotic, typing of Kunikida echoed from the corner.

"—the Black Hood?"

It was Atsushi.

"They're a dangerous gang who are notorious for their bomb assaults for—"

Tanizaki seemed to fill in for him. Probably, an assigned mission. He listened for a bit.

Perplexed, Atsushi read aloud, "Verdugo?"

"They're a crime syndicate," Tanizaki explained. "Technically, the Black Hood is under their employment. One of their hitmen, you can say."

"They're also involved with some missing people?"

"Several occasions, yes."

Bored, Dazai ceased his eavesdropping at once, looking at the clock. He decided to go out in spite of being chastised for his indolence; Kunikida made sure of that an hour ago. As he stood from the couch, he padded to the exit in a beeline. Maybe, he could attempt to get run over by a car.

Just about to leave, a photograph swiped under his shoe. He peered curiously and halted at once.

Atsushi strode to his side, about to claim the photograph with that bashful tone of his.

Though he found himself riveted at the woman in the picture, ignoring the lad for a good solid minute.

He examined the the photograph, his eyes trailing on each detail on her face meticulously. Fair-skinned, dark hair pulled back into a neat braid, and gray eyes. Even with the light touch of makeup on her face or her fairly pleasant features, he found himself fascinated on her eyes—placid, hypnotic, compelling. Somehow, the lack of blue-tinted shades made him ponder whether it suited them or he found them coincidentally alike.

Slightly concerned, Atsushi called, "Dazai-san?"

Regaining his disarming disposition, he gave him a polite smile. "Yours, I believe?"

Accepting the photograph from his reach, he nodded. "Y-yeah."

"Atsushi-kun," he began, eyes marveling at the sleek folder on his hand. His hand stretched out. "If you don't mind?'

Atsushi blinked from the unanticipated request, glancing at the folder on his hand, where he had slid in the photograph a second ago. He looked at him, likely assuming to himself that he had misheard him, but he saw his hand reach out, indicating he heard it correctly. He began to shift, puzzled from his actions. He was going to question him but it was quickly replaced by a "this?" as he held the folder up in view. Conscious of his delay, he complied anyway. "Uh, sure."

Gratefully cradling the folder in his grasp, Dazai flipped the pages, zooming in from the detailed reports of crimes, the usual modus operandi of the suspects, and then their web of connections. Coincidental or not, he'd take his chances.

Still reluctant and confused, the lad next to him asked curiously, "Is there something about the Black Hood that concerns you, Dazai-san?"

As the familiar photograph flashed before him, he read the description about the woman in question. Apparently, she had been stamped as a missing person with a suspicious involvement with this gang. And then a final note that struck him in intrigue, immersing himself in the words.

His attention was still locked on the file. He managed to reply vaguely, "You could say that."

His purple eyes landed on the page, piqued at his finding. They trailed on the words in view, written in clear print: _Yuriko Kirino_

Dazai could tell it from his addled eyes, the curiosity within them, even doubt. Either way, he wasn't concerned of his skepticism from his actions. It wasn't exactly uncharacteristic of him to pry someone else's business—actually, he had a reputation for it. The Agency might as well have dismissed it for his arbitrariness or peculiarity, maybe even both.

Kunikida, who had just stumbled behind him, caught wind of his sudden interest. With arms crossed, he criticized, "You're peculiarly invested over a victim."

Paying his quip no heed, he still gazed at the photograph. "She is quite a beauty."

The ruse only caused a disapproving reaction, as expected.

Well, whatever conclusion he stuck with, he reckoned it as an interesting discovery.

He smiled. Full of meaning, behind its insouciance others would have mistaken for. Maybe, except for Kunikida. It bent a bit too crooked this time and the mad commitment in it was just what gave it away.

—

Lungs filled with the scent of tobacco and burnished wood, she ushered inside the tavern, slightly marveling its vintage ambiance. Old picture frames were nailed on the wall, each having their own set of unique memories in monochromatic colors, and an array of striking liquor bottles racked the bar stand, riveting the attention of curious eyes. More so for an alcoholic's viewpoint. The silence was reprieving at best. It had been a dimly-lit, private place after all, with taciturn customers and an even more reticent bartender, who devoted his time polishing glasses.

It didn't take her a minute to find him sitting at the corner, staring on his drink, mulling. She noted that he hadn't touched it. Padding towards his direction, she casually stuffed her hands on her pockets and finally sat next to him, in which he greeted her with a disarming smile. She didn't return the gesture and regarded his presence with nonchalance, hoping in mind that this rendezvous would end sooner. She shrugged off her leather jacket, revealing her black turtleneck shirt beneath it, hung it from the back of her chair, and ordered herself a glass of whiskey.

Upon having drunk her glass, she spoke, "What are you doing?"

He blinked, flicking his eyes on her. "Hm, thinking."

Some silent part of her wanted to pry more, but she decided to dismiss the thought. "Are you going to drink that?"

Dazai regarded her with mild curiosity, his hand finally nursing his sweltering glass, flourishing it. "Did you think I won't?" he asked promptly instead of answering. "I don't restrain myself from good alcohol."

Her lips expired a soft sigh. She took her time downing her drink, relishing the bubbling warmth at the pit of her gut. "That makes the both of us."

Piqued, he commented, "I didn't really reckon you as an avid drinker."

She shrugged. "Most people don't."

"Natsuo."

She put her glass down abruptly, a dull thud following after.

"Why," she began, "are you calling me that?"

His brown eyes—darker and streaked red from the faint glow of the orange light—darted at her, as if he was anticipating a reaction to grill. "Does it bother you?"

Narrowing her eyes into slits, she simply stared back at him. "That's not my name."

It wasn't a lie. It wasn't her name, not the name she left him to delve into for criminal records and illegal dealings just as he'd hoped to find. He was the sort to sniff out the stink of it. She saw it from the flicker in his eyes. The way his breathing patterns changed and thinned ever so slightly. The very rhythmic tapping of his fingers, nails against wood. Hounding for answers, tracking down her trails—he liked a chase, an unhealthy compulsion for it.

"Well, you did tell me before that you don't mind me calling you with any name," he lifted a casual shrug, voice light and seemly. "I thought that it suits you."

The excuse seemed convincing. Heck, everything he did looked convincing and wayward, just as he was. She didn't buy it though. "I . . . suppose," she replied, her brow curved dubiously. Her hand took her glass, swishing the liquor, letting the ice clash and melt against each other. "When I gave you my name, do you think I'm lying?"

He rubbernecked at her, probing. His calm smile remained. "You're not honest."

Natsuo sighed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "Same difference," she muttered before swigging her whiskey. "By now I think you did your research about my life. Well? I did my end of the bargain. What's there to discuss?"

His eyes broadened slightly. He opted to school his face in sophisticated professionalism, more toned down than their last confrontation. "So you've been supporting yourself ever since you left your orphanage?"

"Yes."

"You have not met any relatives? Or have at least searched for any?"

"None that I can recall," she gandered the area nonchalantly. "What is the point of questioning me when you should have known all this information already?"

Dazai simply grinned. "For confirmation."

She tamped the urge to sigh or to mutter something profane under her breath. Sometimes, he really did have a knack in getting under her skin. Calling the bartender, she ordered a refill. As she held her freshly served whiskey, she mused to herself why hadn't she just ordered for a bottle? She needed the alcohol to cool her temper down, especially when she had to hold a conversation with this kind of person. Even if she did get drunk, she wasn't the sort to divulge information like when she was sober.

She took her time downing her whiskey, making him wait till he dropped. Or at least, she hoped he did.

To her dismay, he just speculated her with interest. He drank for a moment. Eyes still on her.

"You're quite reckless, aren't you?"

She breathed out after dousing her drink. "Not reckless," she professed. "It's a form of appreciation. I savor the alcohol I drink."

His dark brows curved up. "With that much abandon?"

Natsuo wanted to refill her glass. "That doesn't concern me."

The guiltless and unknowing guile on his face betrayed his intentions. He then presumed, "Ah, did I upset you?"

It wasn't like his tone was insincere at all but it did little buoying her mood.

 _No shit_ , she thought with a frown.

In a brittle tone, she deadpanned, "And why do you think so?"

He looked at her, slightly amused of her irritation. "For one, you drink like a fish."

She didn't bother commenting on that though she did dare to sip from her whiskey, utterly indifferent of endorsing his statement.

"And I likely said something offensive to you," he said insouciantly, shrugging after. "Should I apologize?"

Incensed, she gave him an offhanded huff. _Apologize_ , he said. "No, you don't," she replied in a sardonic tone. "This day's just getting to me, you know. Had to let it out one way or another—oh, and I hope you don't mind. I'd like to get myself drunk."

Obviously, he wasn't convinced or impressed. Either way, he wasn't supposed to. His head tilted to the side. "It would be a shame, Natsuo," he said, surmising, riling her even further with that intentional slip of that name. "I'd like to talk to you when you're not drunk."

Natsuo didn't object his notion. Her shoulders heaved a halfhearted shrug. "Who knows? Maybe I'll say something that'll interest you when I'm drunk," she encouraged, reveling at the thought. "I'm quite open when I am."

 _In spouting gibberish, that is._

"You don't seem to understand."

She gave him an indignant snort, lifting her glass. "Oh, I know perfectly well."

"No," he pushed down her glass, withdrawing it from her lips. His hand wrapped on her drink, on her gloved fingers. "You don't."

Dazai leaned in closer, as if to share a secret. His brown eyes bore down on her own, looking at them with unfazed intrigue—passing the blue-tinted shades that obstructed the power within, and just stared down on her eyes, the person beneath them.

His mouth moved, his breath against her lips. "I'd rather confront you sober than intoxicated."

He smiled. An enigma in itself.

"That's," she started, vexed that her voice croaked for a second. "That's not your decision to make."

It was his knowing smirk that got her bristled. He dismissed her impromptu excuse. "Of course."

She drew back from him, sliding her glass from his reach, from the feel of his touch. The closeness was too overwhelming.

Natsuo straightened her back, her hand falling on her lap. Her lips were dry, so was her throat, simply begging to be washed down by alcohol. She wanted to drink. She really did. Though somehow having to be reminded of that earlier episode made her prefer not to indulge that whim. _Calm yourself and get over with it_ , she reminded.

It was then she noticed that he slid a photograph to her. "By any chance, do you know this woman?" he inquired, all matter-of-fact. "Her name is Yuriko Kirino. She was a private investigator from the police awhile back."

She scrutinized the woman in the picture. "No, I don't know her," she said, voice stern and clipped. "Why would you bring her up?"

"She's reportedly missing for about two years from now," he elaborated. "From the recent leads gathered, it was speculated that one of your customers has sent a specific package for her from your courier company just a few minutes away before she disappeared."

"Well, I'm not sure," she told him, looking back at the photograph. "It could have been anyone else assigned to deliver her package. Shouldn't you have considered asking the company that I work for instead of me? It would have spared you the trouble. Informally disclosing confidential information of the customers by the employees is restricted unless you have guaranteed permission," and then she added: "detective or not."

There was something mechanical in his eyes, processing everything like a rotating spoke of a wheel. "It was worth a shot," he replied, smiling with mirth. "I simply found it convenient having to meet you, especially having to deal with a case like this."

Flagging her shoulders, Natsuo sighed wearily. "What next? Am I part of a motorcycle gang?"

"Well, I didn't really consider it," he admitted, his thumb cupping his chin. "Though I thought of asking you again to reconsider my offer."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Personal preference," she answered, crossing her arms. "The least thing I want is clerkship."

"I didn't mean clerkship," Dazai said, gracing her a meaningful look. "I acknowledged your perception. Actually, getting you in the frontlines should fit you. You'll fare well as a personal investigator, rather you have the potential for it."

He supplied, "Moreover, your ability can be utilized for nobler ends."

 _You don't know what's best for me,_ was what she wanted to spat and she had to clench her fists from her sides to repress uttering it aloud. Even if he had all the information he could scrounge about her, utilize against her, one thing was certain and it would cling on him like blood on his lips. _You don't know me._

She frowned, pestered at his supposedly persuading words. "I don't like using my ability," she admitted, growing rankled at the thought. "Is this over yet? The questioning, I mean. I don't always have the time to prove my innocence."

His eyes pointed at her, deceiving and distrusting as its shade. "You believe you're innocent?"

"I don't recall committing a crime," she retorted unflinchingly. "Unless having an ability is a crime, that is."

It had been a moment, a sensation for her to behold even if it lasted for a few seconds. He had such a priceless look. The disarming mask he had worn so carefully slid off his face for her to compromise and peruse. Her barb affected him—she couldn't tell what it was—but some part of him had to recoil from that, take his time to register and recuperate. Had it been a sensitive matter? Whatever it was, it struck a nerve.

Clearing his throat, he composed himself as if she had said nothing earlier. "Well, Natsuo," he reiterated, taking his glass and drinking from it. "I'd still like to meet up with you,"

He twirled his glass leisurely, eyeing the golden-brown brandy in rumination. He shrugged. "Maybe, I'll drop the questions next time."

Her brow arched. "You will?"

He simpered. "Tentative."

"Is it necessary for me to still meet up with you?"

"You've still been rather vague," he gazed at her in consideration, or at least what he wanted to let on. "Cooperative, nonetheless."

Natsuo confirmed, "Then I shouldn't."

His face contorted into that of pleasant surprise, only milder and obscure from his expectations. He shook his head. "I don't advise that," his eyes averted, distanced. Thinking. A slow smile tugged his lips as he sipped from his drink. "Well, think of it as a date."

Did she misheard him? Because awhile ago he was suspecting her as some sort of criminal.

Her eyes pulsed wide in disbelief. "You're not really—"

"Is it wrong?"

Yes, it was. In so many ways. If she had to make a list, she'd do so in a heartbeat.

"You find me dangerous," she repeated in an addled and frustrated tone, stressing each word. "You said so yourself."

"It shouldn't mean I'm not capable of stopping you," his mouth curved up in confidence with all that cheeky demeanor that she remembered when she had first met him from that rooftop. "If you intend to be, that is."

Pressing, she inquired, "And what do you expect after that?"

"Nothing, really," Dazai shrugged. "Socializing with another respectable person wouldn't be such a bad thing, would it?"

It was a lie, but damn, it was a good lie.

"Perhaps," she said, unconvinced. "But I'd rather pass."

His lips curled into a telling smile. "No, I think you won't."

* * *

 **A/N:** I will edit this later since I had to rush this, but you can gripe if you've found mistakes. This was posted later than I expected. In my defense, I had rewritten it and somehow the only productive thing I did was get it longer. Chapters will be shorter from here on, I hope.

Okay, as it would appear, I removed the Romance tag. Why? Actually, I already stated my reason on my profile. Though, either way I'm still going to have to explain myself here. It isn't like there's not going to be romance but it'll be subtle and rocky (hopefully, I'm aiming for this one to be more realistic as much as possible).

Regarding Dazai, I am really happy to hear most of you didn't find him OOC. This chapter, well, I hope I didn't put your expectations down to a drain. It's really difficult getting inside his head, you know. I wanted him to have that small obsession of her since I've always viewed his character to have an unnatural inclination to win (and he was part of the mafia and is a suicidal maniac so it makes it quite probable). For the most part, I just want him to have a hard time.

Anyway, I appreciate the encouragement and support for this story. Really, I didn't expected this to get good feedback but thank you!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 03:** **What can kill you**

* * *

The vibration in the pocket of her pants caught her off guard. Natsuo swiped her phone from her pocket, inclined to reply back. "Hello?" she said, her eyes darting at the unknown number on the screen. "Who is this?"

"Natsuo,"

Her eyes pulsed wide at the caller; the blithe casualness of his voice was very, very distinctive.

She strolled about, calm and rigid in her strides, and peered at the corner of her eyes, as if suspecting the man in question was stalking her not too far behind. Stitching her brows together, she called out, " _Dazai_ ," her tone was a bit forced, strained with flabbergast and frustration. "How did you even get my—no, _why_ are you calling me?"

His response to her demand was a laugh, soft but awkward. Uncharacteristic of him. "Ah, you see . . . I need your help," she could hear the cringe in his voice from other line. "I'm in the parking lot."

Her gaze landed at the large establishment, neighboring next to the building of her courier company. She had finished her last delivery a little earlier than the usual this afternoon and it just so happened that she was directing herself out to find her parked motorbike. She had to grudgingly dismiss the thought that coincidences were such a pain in the ass. "I'm just heading there," she mentioned, walking her way through the main gate, scouring for him. "Why would you even—"

The grasp on her phone loosened, almost slipping from her palm. Gaping in bemusement, she was petrified at the sight.

 _What the hell?_

Dazai was dangling in midair, his leather shoes barely touching the ground. There was a noose on his neck, hoisting his body up in suspension, and the struggle had been evident and clear to take note of, as his hands tautly grasped the rope wrung on him. He did look a little blue, ghostly pallid against the light, but the rise and fall of his chest and the constant twitches of his movements indicated that he was alive and foolish.

Hanging above before her, he graced her a silly, constrained smile.

"If you will untie me . . ."

There, he came to her like an accident.

—

Natsuo sighed, grateful of the sea breeze. For a moment, she let her eyes observe the harbor, the lined rows of warehouses by the shore. Just farther away, a tall pillar casted a shadow against the setting sun; bathed with the evening's colors of dusk gray and pink, the lighthouse towered all with two fading panels of light against the horizon in a clockwise spin. The harbor was just a five minute walk away from the parking lot and all she needed now was just a moment of reprieve.

Ambling beside him, she dunked her hands onto her pockets. "Is this because I rejected you?"

"Not particularly."

"You're going to get me in trouble," she griped, consciously pushing up her shades. "Really, of all places, did you _have to_ hang yourself in the parking lot?"

Being the suicidal maniac that he was, Dazai lit at the question with a beam. "Well, it's perfect, if I must say. If you think about it, the height is enough to keep me above and the pipes are pretty sturdy and durable, I checked. Old pipes do tend to fall apart when forcing your weight onto it and that just ruins the occasion for someone who wants to break his neck," he cleared his throat, aware of his digression. However it was intentional. "Regardless, I came here for my investigation."

Her brow arched. "Really?"

With a suspended smile, he mirrored the gesture although his way was more suggestive than skeptic. "Did you really think I came here for you?"

Natsuo tamped the urge to roll her eyes, instead giving him a nonchalant glare. "Well, you can play detective while sparing time to commit suicide, and look, you caught my attention," she retorted, trusting her deduction. "I call that hitting two birds with one stone. And for your question, yes. You did."

His mouth made of a snort of amusement as they perked up, larking and pleased. "That's something to admire about," he remarked, shrugging after. "Fine, I admit it. You're right."

She sighed, both in disappointment and satisfaction. Her stare pointed at him accusingly. "Did you have to be flashy about it?" she scolded, not too fond of the memory or consequences in his stunt. "Someone could have seen you."

His bandaged hand began to caress his neck, blotted with a ringed, darkening blue bruise. She involuntarily winced at the deed all the while he kept his mirthful smile on his face, as if the pain wasn't there—no, it _was_ there and he prodded it, relishing the pain with each jab of his finger like having to receive a worthy token of sort. He was still enthusiastic, and she couldn't help but think if the pain was even worth the risk.

He shrugged again, insouciant as always. "You'll likely ignore me."

 _He has a point_ , she thought. A sigh left her lips.

"So," she uttered in a drawl. "Talk."

"Should I find us a place to settle this first?"

"If it's a bar, I'll pass," she said. "I'm fine out here."

Dazai graced a curious look. "You didn't decline before."

"For now, I'd rather be sober."

After all, she had another agenda to complete in the evening.

It was then her gaze wandered to the sea, entranced on its rolling waves which flushed and glimmered beneath the plunging sun, splitting within a swarm of thick, gray-violet clouds on the horizon. She felt the sea breeze waft by, almost tasting it from its warm, salty air. Then it occurred to her that it had been quite awhile ever since she had last seen the bay in this section of the city or felt the sand curl on her toes from a beach, breathing softly under the summer sun, letting the seafoam run up and caress her ankles.

It was the stark contrast of the bustle in the city streets, which smelled of asphalt gas and concrete; all but cemented roads and high-octane skyscrapers and urban denizens skittering about in their starched suits and brief cases. Here, it felt too nostalgic and familiar—perhaps, the only semblance she'd ever have—that it hurt so much to remember each detail, each fragment of a lost memory.

It hit too close to home, that's all.

And a little bit of it, like always, was an inch closer in treading on dangerous ground.

"Have you been near the harbor before?" he asked curiously, and she couldn't help but think how long had she been zoning out for him to not miss the sentiment in her acts.

"Not really," she said, concealing her tone with indifference. "Why ask?"

"You look, how should I put it— _ah_ , intrigued rather," he speculated with a thumb beneath his chin. "Are you fond of the sea?"

Looking at him, she deadpanned, "No."

He simply stared at her, ever silent.

Natsuo casually shrugged, stuffing her hands on her pockets. "I thought I saw something interesting," she uttered bleakly but her voice was all but convincing. She breathed in, the smell of salt ghosting. Then out. "Must have been my imagination."

Sadly, it wasn't really. In, out. Suck another breath.

"Let me guess," she started with a faint smile. It was unintentional for her part to start a genial conversation with him. Though if it was enough to bury the melancholy and nostalgia, she would invite any kind of distraction to keep herself unperturbed and astray. "If I were to guess what you think about the sea, it would be drowning, right?" she mulled why she had spoken about _suicide_ in the first place of all things.

Regardless, he was quite enthused of her statement. His simper twisted up, unabashedly blithe. "You know me so well."

Unlike him, she thought otherwise. Her lips frowned. "It amazes me how you can ruin a beautiful view."

Dazai laughed at that, perceiving her gist. His laugh was just so . . . pleasant and soft, like silk on skin. Honestly, she wanted to share a laugh with him though she bit her mouth before ever reconsidering on joining with him, taking it all in. And just like that, it felt like a slap in the face. It felt like betrayal. This was the _enemy_. He was the enemy. Smalltalk and jokes aside, he'll probably revert back to his cruel and calculating nature after this.

But, really. Sometimes, his charisma was perhaps the most disarming attribute she can identify with him. All that practiced grace, that effectively affable air about him simply screamed trustworthy and charming. Somehow she couldn't help but feel stupid for overseeing that fact and almost forgetting how much of a dangerous man he truly was. It didn't take a glimpse of a few memories to recognize him as one.

Though that instance of cordiality, no matter how contrary and unpredictable it was between them, was admittedly the closest thing she'd have as normal interaction in friendly terms. The irony made her want to burst into a fit of laughter, just to mock how she had no personal life. Talking to him casually almost felt like desperation.

And she can't have any of that, clinging to him for sanity. He was the wrong person for that position.

Her shoulders dropped, so did her words. "You're too eccentric."

Curious, he commented, "You think so?"

"And unpredictable."

"But aren't you the same?"

"You find me unpredictable?" she said, looking at him in disbelief. "I find myself more impulsive."

"Impulsive," he echoed her back, shaping the word with his mouth. "Though your impulsiveness is what makes you unpredictable."

His eyes nailed on her, drawing her to stare back at his hard glare. Eyes so dark that it hid a thousand secrets and she knew one, finding herself in it. The sight of it robbed air from her lungs. "You make it both easy and difficult to let others read what you think," he reasoned in a cool, patient tone, face smooth, but intent hardly the same as his guile. He continued gently, "What you'll do."

Natsuo did no such thing as flinch from the words. She won't let it touch her, provoke her. "Does it matter? How I think is no different from what you or another person think," she replied, collected, "because you don't know them well enough."

Her eyes strayed away, blinded with the colors of plastic blue. "And, really, it's not the only interesting thing out there."

"And what is interesting to you?"

It was then she decided to gaze at him, disclosing even a smidgen of herself before those judging eyes of his—and honestly, she didn't know why, couldn't comprehend _why_ she was hoping despite it all. Her eyes might have smoldered and softened like molten lead, burning holes on the lenses, melting the plastic with the old embers of a private desire. And desiring so much did make people so hopelessly weak. "The mundane," she spoke softly, feeling her knees tremble just a little. "The simple and boring things in life, the common people who wish for a taste of extraordinariness."

With a rueful smile on her lips, she took a confident step forward, no longer shying her eyes away from his. "Something that is not _us_ ," she intoned, her voice firm yet also quivering. Her throat was starting to hurt. "That do not define us, that we can never have."

Dazai was at a loss of words.

It took him a moment to register it all in his mind. His head tilted down at her direction and it occurred to her how tall he was. Those eyes of his, those brown eyes full of enigma was still shuttered for the world to see, for her to see. It was blank and unreadable. And she desperately wanted to know the musings he kept from her.

She crossed her arms, half ireful of herself, half stupidly, dumbly weak. "I must sound jealous," she said. _It's almost pathetic._ "Silly, isn't it? I'm saying these things all of a sudden."

Regaining his placid disposition, he showed her the smallest of smiles, a gesture of appreciation. "Not at all," he told her but it sounded distant. "Though you certainly don't look like the part to have an interest in such thing."

Was that all?

"Perhaps," she answered, finally averting her gaze away. "And what about you? Are you willing to share something?"

"If I were to tell you," he responded, "you will hate me for it."

Natsuo felt something chilling slither up her spine.

If she did hate him, it would make things easier. Not _this_. Hesitant, she replied, "Try me." _Will you make me hate you?_

"I am interested . . . of how involved you are," he stated in measured and grave tones, his bearings contorting gradually into a mask of calm. That calm. That conniving, almost unfeeling calm terrified her. "The courier company you work for has been collaborating with the Black Hood for hiding illegal firearms and some of their employees have been confirmed to be members of the gang itself."

"You had worked there for a year," each word felt like daggers thrusting on her chest, inching on aiming her to finality. "You should have known it from now."

Then he whispered to her ear, "I _know_."

The gravity of the situation loomed, pressuring down until one of them would be crushed beneath it.

Her hands fisted to her sides, restraining herself. "There's no explaining myself out of this, isn't there? Even if I were to ask you that I am telling the truth," she smiled, mirthless and condescending. So, it had come to this. "You wouldn't believe me."

She took in another breath of air. "Just as how I wouldn't believe you."

"In conclusion, we're both liars," he chuckled mildly, humorless. "Though there is a significant flaw to that."

His eyes flicked on hers and they stung like a whip. "You're not a liar. You don't like to lie," he said. "But you still do it anyway."

 _You don't like to lie._ His words repeated in a loop, bellowing. She held a breath, forgetting how to breathe.

 _But you_ will _do it anyway,_ was supposedly what he intended to say. Unspoken it was, the weight of it crushed her tenfold than his utterance. She knew. He knew. _That I'll do it again._

Her throat contracted, tight and squeezed. She was choking. Suffocating.

"Tell me, is it still a lie?"

A dare, she perceived. He was daring her, luring her in his manipulation. It was strongly resistless, even more so difficult to let it pass. She could hear it, the untold words that left his lips. _Show me your eyes. Show me how vicious you truly are. Break me, if you can._ She bit her inner cheek, lips quivering, breaths laced with dark promise. And it was so tantalizing to just dispose of the damn glasses and be done with it.

But it meant giving in to him. That he was right. _I'll be damned if I did. Hell, I already am._

Though her resolution was already breaking. She felt a graze from her molars, a trickle of iron on her tongue.

His smile tilted up. Taunting.

"Tell me it is."

Her teeth sunk in and her mouth tasted of blood.

And she snapped.

Natsuo barreled towards him, her eyes ablaze with menacing fury. She held him in place as her hand curled on the collar of his coat jacket, fisting it in a crumple down at her direction. She stood taller. Tall enough but daunting. It didn't matter who saw or passed by them—who was brave enough to intervene—because no one would, not unless if he was willing enough to incinerate into ashes in the fire.

The heat settled within her in waves, blood rushing from her fingers to the tips of her ears. The throbbing in her chest went _thump, thump, thump_ , the holler of a rabid creature caged in her ribs. Her mouth exhausted warm air, the taste of salt and of him on her tongue. It felt unbearable, this friction. It didn't matter. Everything didn't. She was close, just a breath away. Eyes on him. His on hers.

The mocking sneer on his lips bared a little bit of himself. It told many things, insinuated them, and it said to her how he felt the tremble in her hand, how her being shook before him. He tipped her, threw her from the edge. It riled her to no end.

 _I don't care. I don't care. I don't—_

"You can say you're a ruthless woman. Perhaps, if you did think about it you'll decide to kill me here, but you won't do it," he won't touch her as he had the grit to lean close enough to her to prove a point. So close, she could notice his contracted irises, the way his dark curls fringe over them. "You put up such an intimidating front though actually you're not the person you think you are. You're not as strong or willing as you think."

She warned through gritted teeth, " _Don't_."

"You're vulnerable," he whispered, loathing each word on his mouth like poison.

And poison it was.

There was a sinister glint in his eyes. "Prove me wrong," he goaded, anticipating. "Do it."

This time, his voice was low and commanding. " _Do it_ ," and then that name rolled off his tongue, curling on each syllable, "Natsuo."

 _Do it. Do it. Doitdoitdoit._

Her nails dug deep into the fabric of his collar. She stifled, hot white anger welling in her, pulsing in her veins.

"You . . ."

 _Kill yourself._

Her shaking hand rose, exacting the position of their faces. Her fingers were tingling, clawed in position for picking. She sucked a breath—

And that hand curled into a fist, returning back to her side.

His eyes pulsed wide.

Her flushed face only hardened. "I hate you."

Her voice broke out again, pitched down into a raw, harsh whisper, "I _hate_ you," her grasp on him wrung and twisted. She clung onto the collar of his shirt, as if to save her from the verge of falling. Her knuckles went lurid that she can count each blue vein sinuating beneath her skin like webs. Casting her eyes down, she let out a shuddering breath. "God, I really do." But she didn't, really.

Her hand slipped from her taut hold and she didn't move an inch. He looked at her, drinking in her pathetic display. She trembled, still. Trembled hard. And then it dawned upon her why she crumbled into pieces, body cut-open and dissected, muscles peeled from bone—deep within, an unearthed lie exposed. She didn't tremble because of outrage or fear.

But of denial.

She was an absolute mess. She hated herself for it.

The sun dipped down to the horizon, engulfed whole, its beams dispersing into panels within the hazes. Storm clouds, all sullen and gray, swelled in clustered torrents on the sky, promising a wet, dour evening for all. The gust was heavily misted with dankness, warm still from the sea, but cool enough to feel the approach of rainfall. Without warning, it did not take long for it to pour down, pummeling in beats, making the people scamper to the nearest stall to shield themselves.

They were left alone, on the bay, under the mercy of the rain. Motionless and drenched out in the cold.

Somehow, this felt like an appropriate end for them.

An intimate rhythm resounded in her mind. She wanted to believe it was the clamor of the pitter-pattering and not the blood pounding on her ears. When she stared back into his eyes, she saw something beneath the unfathomable, even just a little. It was familiar and drawing and _wrong_ —and she pretended to mistake it with something else even when she still knew what she saw and it was clear as day—because it reflected like her own: a mutuality. She disregarded it, futilely.

She skidded back. No. _No_. She was upset of him, yes. _But_. She wanted to hate him, wanted to feel satisfaction of striking him across the face. All he did was harass her into submitting, this suicidal fool, this frightening, frightening man. Who might as well have seen through her, plucked and stripped the emotions banking in her chest, relieved them. The anger felt real and it still burned for him.

Yet she couldn't even hate him for it.

* * *

 **crzychigurl343:** Thank you for the review! This starts at least after the Guild arc in the manga.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 04:** **What cannot be saved**

* * *

"Yuriko Kirino is _dead_."

"Oh, but wasn't she also regarded as missing?"

Nobu Hideyoshi—the tycoon wretch—tried to maintain an illusion of propriety. Very typical for a businessman, all the more tedious. "That's an old case, sir. You're two years too late," he told him. Dazai took note that even his condescending tone had a lingering edge on his words. "Let me be perfectly frank with you, she's gone. Done. Might as well give it up when there're no leads on her. Who knows what they say? She might as well be dead."

His brow curved at the mention. "Dead? If I may, how can you be so certain?" Dazai questioned. "There's no body or murder weapon in that matter. She's been missing, yes. Though there is no conclusion to it, isn't there? Nothing else, aside from her last string of connection before her disappearance,"

Hideyoshi began to perspire, he noticed. It was amusing.

Dazai curled his lips into a confident smile. He stated, "this courier company."

The tycoon burst into an outrage, neglecting his practiced, solemn facade. Countless minutes of inquiry must have racked his nerves, like a ticking time bomb ready for a cataclysmic detonation. Dazai gave himself credit; he had a talent for it, compromising weak points to his advantage. Perhaps it was a tad cruel but he didn't mind toying with his victims.

Pointing a finger at him, Hideyoshi accused hotly, "Are you implying that _my_ company is responsible for this woman's disappearance?"

His hands raised in defense. "I didn't accuse anything of the sort."

The look on his face was priceless. It was then Hideyoshi had realized how foolish he had behaved in front of a _detective_. To act so defensive and high-strung could only raise suspicions and some validation for his part. It was only a matter of time he had to muster a quick solution, or in other words, resort to desperation.

Pacifying his temper, Hideyoshi cleared his throat and confronted him with sophistication. "Look here, young man. This company, everything in it, it's my work, all right? I can't let it go down to shambles just because of some missing woman. It's bad for business as it is," he leaned closer as if to conspire, dabbing a handkerchief on his forehead. "So, the bottom line is I want you to stop. The case is finished, overdue."

As his head tilted to the side, Dazai gave him the impression of bemusement. "You want me to stop pursuing the case of a woman, who may or may not be alive, in the hopes of saving _your_ company?"

All business-like, Hideyoshi squared his shoulders and laced his money-grubbing fingers together. "If it gets it done, name your price."

Pleasantly raising his brows, Dazai remarked, "That sounds rather enticing."

"The whole lot of you should understand that the past is better left unspoken."

Ah. _Hah._

Dazai wanted to break into a fit of laughter. He truly did.

Spouting confidential information so easily. Dazai had to mull how this man had not been pointed by a gun on the forehead at this point. Whatever crime syndicate this squealer cooperated with, he had to express his disapproval for not leaving him as a corpse in his own office yet. _Slack. Very disappointing_ , he criticized. Reserving himself, he simply let out a chuckle. "My, my, Hideyoshi-san," he said aloud, blithe and repulsed. "People of your kind are truly scum."

As the tycoon seemed to register his taunt, Dazai took his time to retrieve the recorder hidden on his coat pocket and savored the moment when he began to replay the words of their so-called 'bargain'. Sadistic amusement, that delicious, black nostalgia as a mafioso, rushed in him in a spike upon having to witness the dismay on his pathetic face. It did suit a scum like him.

"— _if it gets it done, name your price . . ._ "

Dazai clicked the stop button and returned it back to its previous place, sparring the horrified man from his recorded errs. He lowered his head, his lips quirking from a snort of laughter. "Bribery of all things," he didn't bother glossing his voice in its genteel amiability; this one was just mocking. "I have no interest in your money."

His dark eyes flicked up at him, observing the bundling tension in him build and corrode his bowels into water. He looked so pale that his heart might as well be beating out of his chest. Dazai flashed him his signature smile. "Ah, and I do suggest you cooperate unless I decide to file you an arrest warrant for graft and conspiracy."

Hideyoshi swallowed hard. "C-conspiracy! What do you—"

"Why, regarding Yuriko Kirino's disappearance, of course," Dazai reasoned smoothly, folding his hands on his lap. A little push was all he needed. "Especially when you are quite adamant in keeping quiet about her involvement in your affairs, Hideyoshi-san."

It was then Hideyoshi took his time in contemplation, gawking on the cuffs of his pressed suit in a stupor. His antsy eyes said it all; the inevitability of escape or resistance. All routes led him to compliance. His hand crept up his to long face, pale as a ghost, and rubbed his temples in frustration. The quiver in his hand had caught his attention. It was his fear that gave it away and he could catch a whiff of it though that wasn't what riveted his attention. It was the instigator of the fear, the shadow beneath his feet.

Hideyoshi tugged his collar shakily, as he lowered his voice into a whisper. "I-I'll tell you anything, all right?" he said, pleading. "Just please, _please_ , offer me protection,"

"They'll kill me," his voice broke into a cry—a very pitiable cry, for a middle-aged man. "They might as well have send one person like they did to her . . . "

Dazai considered, listening. "One person . . . ?"

"They always do that though I don't know. _I don't know_! They have a lot of resources to finish the job for them anyway," Hideyoshi explained. "That's why I'm telling you. Anyone who opposes them might as well be considered a deadman. You know that woman, I'm sure she's probably dead too. Do you understand?"

"As of late, that issue remains tentative. Perhaps, she is or she isn't. It doesn't matter, really. The hitmen under their employ isn't the real predicament. It's uncovering the truth, simple as that."

Hideyoshi gaped at him as if he was a madman. "I . . . I don't get it. What do you want to gain in this? There's no value in it, nothing," he shook his head, his breaths growing shallow from the pressure. "You might as well be chasing after death."

Which was why he finds this chase undoubtedly exciting. It's nothing more but a gamble after all. Maybe he'll die, who knows?

 _Well, even if it comes to that—_

"I'll be honest with you, it's not really about the matter of solving the case," Dazai admitted. "I'd like to think it's more of a selfish end."

"An end?" Hideyoshi repeated in disbelief. "What are you trying to do by raising this case again?"

Dazai smiled, wordlessly.

 _I always win._

It didn't take him long to pick the truth behind his teeth.

—

Dazai miscalculated.

The fault itself was unbearable because it had been his own doing.

The blaze in her eyes was like that of wildfire; pale flames that would have devoured him whole, _should have rid him from existence_ , but none of its wrath came upon him as he expected. These eyes full of power, full of unadulterated rage and conflict. These eyes . . . weren't the eyes of a killer.

Perhaps, he had discarded it or maybe, just _maybe_ , he overlooked that one thing that stood out. Remorse. It was there, he knew. Always. Lingering there, biting at the back of his skull. The regret in those eyes, that heavy, worn look that hung beneath them and sought for release.

It was true after all. The eyes were the windows to the soul. Hers trembled, echoed to the depths of his own in ways he couldn't truly fathom. He had seen it before, plenty of times, and it didn't start when he looked back at the man before the mirror.

He could muster a thousand crimes that she might have committed and he could have been correct with each one. But nothing like this. How could he have missed it? That sliver of good inside of her, beneath the thick layers of secrecy and fear and misunderstanding. A shard of humanity, flawed with crooked edges and cracked ridges.

It was real and he was too prideful to admit it.

However this didn't mean Natsuo was a saint, not in a long shot. She still had her suspicious dealings and pursuits—for a woman who claimed to desire mundanity. It was laughably contradictory with all that show of conviction she flaunted awhile ago. The integrity of that wish waned because instead of avoiding the abnormalities and corruptions of this damned, crooked world, she drew herself near them. Like a blind, blind fool.

But this only raised the question: _why_ did she have to go through lengths to do it?

Dazai was about to open his mouth, supposing to end the silence, but her voice raised before he had a chance to utter a word.

Her head hung low though beneath her blond hair was a glower, bright and torrid in the dark. "You're insane . . . you're fucking _insane_ ," she spat under her breath, her hands balled into fists. Her tone was mordant, densely saturated with ire. She didn't shake because she was afraid or intimidated; she shook in fury. "Did you really think I wanted to kill you?"

He regained his composure, aloof and pragmatic in his disposition. "It's more on the matter that you can."

"I can," she confirmed, glaring at him with conviction. "But I won't."

She dared to take a step forward, inhaling, exhaling. "I _won't_ because I don't want to," she uttered through gritted teeth. "I _won't_ because I won't stoop so low to your level."

The defiance in her voice smote him with an emotion he couldn't identify all too well. It felt like a blow, the sort that smacked you squarely in the jaw and nabbed you in fleeting seconds of surprise and chagrin.

And then the sight of blood had collapsed the gravity between them.

"You're bleeding."

Natsuo didn't look like she wanted to reminded. Rather, she must have preferred if her predicament hadn't roused his attention.

His eyes were trained on her lower torso. The blood further darkened her shirt as it spread into a sopping blot. She clutched the fabric; her quivering hand a bone-white contrast against the bloodstain. She panted out heavy breaths, barely containing them with her tight mouth. She tried to steadily slink back towards a nearby bench, retaining her balance from ever stumbling, and sat there unceremoniously. Streams of blood spread out in ribbons, trailing beneath her like a red spoor.

Dazai would have jabbed how careless she was, but minutely dismissed the idea as he allowed himself to near her. He had pondered why she bled, _how she bled_ , in the most inconvenient timing and would have wanted to question her for it but he dismissed it for the meantime. It was a matter he'd settle later.

He crouched next to her, inspecting her profile, and was about to reach out for a clearer view of the wound when she had slapped his hand away. She was glowering at him with feral intensity, almost making her appear like some rabid, wounded animal. She might as well act as one. No words left her lips, but it was perfectly obvious that she did not want his aid in her plight.

He waited, at least when her temper simmered down. It was then when her guard was lowered that he began to act; letting his fingers push aside the leather jacket and gingerly prod them to the wet, warm crimson at the side of her abdomen. When he added pressure in his touch, he earned a wince from her. He withdrew his hand as he observed the thick smear on them, glittering from the lamplights, and he would have wanted to roll up her shirt to inspect the wound better but the deed required privacy as they were out in the bay in display for the public.

Fortunately, the harsh rainfall hadn't stopped and the bay was dearth of people. Bystanders could only stir more problems and her wound was worse enough to deal with as it was. But then again, if it did lead to that case the weather had done the rest; her profuse bleeding wouldn't have been as apparent when the rain hadn't washed it out. Well, unless you were close enough to peruse your surroundings.

"The wound needs to be treated immediately," he stated matter-of-factly, musing how he should take his course of action in this predicament. "You need to go to a hospital."

Her eyes were averted away from his. She swallowed a breath. Swallowed the pain.

Then she scowled, muttering: "No."

He could feel the biting cold seep through his clothes—for awhile savored the numbness of his skin—and let the ice-water trickle down from the column of his neck, stopping perfectly just at his pulse. It was nice, like the tingle from the pointed edge of a cutter. "You'd prefer leaving it like that then?"

"No," she shook her head lethargically. "Not a hospital. It's . . . it's too far from here."

He stood before her, scrutinizing still. The rushing blood beneath her was a little too distracting. Some selfish part of him wished he bled like that, bled as humans did. "Well, are you just going to sit there? You'll leave quite a mess."

Her bleached-blond hair was damp, sticking in clumps to the sides of her face. Privately wanting to brush the strands away, he'd hoped they wouldn't obscure her silvery eyes; eyes that still burned and blazed for him. She simply huffed in vexation. "I don't recall asking for your advice or help."

He smiled sardonically at that.

"I am the help all you have."

Still too obstinate and furious, Natsuo refused him in her silence. Her stubbornness was thinning whatever patience he had reserved.

"I don't suppose you prefer me as the last person to see you die?"

And that was all it took to make her acquiesce.

—

It was a difficult effort getting in his apartment.

At present, it was in a great deal of disorder, as they came; drenched overcoats flung on a corner, blood on the floor, on _his_ couch. The state of his flat might as well be investigated for a crime scene.

Natsuo did her best to repress a shiver, biting it down with the pain of her gaping wound. Much to her discomfort, her glasses must have fallen off somewhere and her shirt had been discarded, even those useless bandages, since he had cleaned the wound a minute ago. She wasn't particularly naked although having to be exposed—in her bra and pants—left her in a more vulnerable position than she thought. She had always been a modest person; one who highly regarded dressing in thick layers of clothes for comfort and security. It was a priority, a must.

This . . . this made everything feel more _terrible_ as it was.

Her hands rubbed her bare shoulders, almost automatically, as she pacified the panic surfacing in her mind. This wasn't right. To be in this place, to be in his apartment . . . in such a pitiful state. The awareness of it all was unbearable. It felt like a knife was carefully placed on her throat and she couldn't do anything to push it away. _Calm down, for your own sake_.

Dazai returned back shortly with what seems to be a liquor bottle and a medical kit. Unlike the former, the latter didn't surprise her. He was just as worn and doused as she was, but his composure, the way he held himself, was admittedly something that cannot be missed. It made her feel more conscious. Envious, rather. He came to her side, crouching next to her, and then he proceeded to open the cap of the bottle, a low fizz resounding after.

She stared at him incredulously. As always, he took the hint. She just wished he hadn't put on that smile.

"I don't have any disinfectant. There's no time to buy one either," he reasoned in deliberate, measured tones. "This will do for the time being."

He scrutinized the wound again, as if he intended to commit it to memory.

"This will sting," he warned, less stern. "Ready?"

Her response came with a nod and a grimace. She braced herself, eyes cold and impassive. The pain scorched in as the alcohol sploshed on the wound, like liquid fire on her skin. All phlegmatic facades melted away into anguish, a deep, resonating one that might as well scar her. He pressed down her shoulder, keeping her still, while she shook, her toes curling, her knees buckling. Her hand clawed on the couch, digging her nails on it; she might as well tear it to shreds.

It was horrible and intense. Though nothing equaled with the pain from the blow to her dignity. She was exposed in a compromising disposition, half-naked, under his supervision. She hated it. This moment of weakness. Of how he stared at her intently and how she couldn't really get a whit of what he thought of her that very instant.

As she shriveled from the pain, she tried to contain herself, clamping her palm on her mouth with bruising force in an attempt to quiet the forming shriek stuck on her throat. She may have flayed, thrashed, and whimpered, but she won't let him hear her scream. She won't give him the satisfaction of witnessing it firsthand. She ground her teeth together and let it all pass away.

It was when the deed had been done that she exhausted out a breath. She hadn't been breathing, she realized. " _Fuck_ ," she murmured low. Sweat, mixed with rainwater, beaded her forehead and ran down at the hollow of her collarbones. She let the air rush into her lungs, hoping for reprieve, but she was anything but relaxed. She was still tense, still aware, as she felt the searing pain disinfect the wound. His cold hand on her feverish skin didn't help either way as he began to wipe the remaining alcoholic residue. It made her stir.

Ironically, his voice had been the best distraction. "How did you get that gun wound?"

 _Gun wound_. The specific detail he appended was both expected and perturbing. Her jaded eyes wandered away as she drew her lips into a tight line. A minute had already come by and he still waited. Nothing ever slipped pass this man. "Skirmish," she managed to utter. "Just a skirmish."

Having already closed the wound, he began to dress it with a gauze. In a placid tone, he pressed, "What kind of skirmish?"

Natsuo steeled herself. "It's . . . none of your concern."

Cold hands, cold eyes. She had to muse if this man was as real as she was because the cold in him didn't feel right. Didn't feel as human as she thought. There was an edge to those eyes that felt like the tip of an icy razor, sharp and cutting and penetrating, as it sunk into her own, tearing slits on her pupils to disclose the little white lies—they might as well be big fat ones at this point—behind them. He was good at that, rending her exposed.

 _Exposed_. An exposed, breathing lie; maybe, that was what he thought of her. She couldn't really deny it. Though the thought did little to appease her temperament, making her realize how naked she was. Her hands went up to her shoulders, shielding herself in act of insecurity. She missed those layers of clothes, of how it hid her from the world.

Taking note of her actions, the intensity of his eyes subsided and was replaced with cognizance. "It might as well be my concern," he stated, finishing his ministrations on her. "Especially when I'm the one treating you."

"You didn't have to and you know it," she barbed. "I might as well have bled to death."

But the spat was empty despite the vehemence in her tone. She wouldn't let herself die, especially when there were important matters that held her back.

And he wasn't one of them.

Dazai looked at her, deep into her.

Then a pregnant silence loomed in and eventually his voice had spared her from it.

"Well, I won't let you die," he said, words spoken so smooth and natural that it wasn't difficult to mistake. "Let alone, let you bleed to death."

It was the only time she was sure he _meant_ every word. The promise in them assured her of it.

To the ignorant, it must have mollified the most shaken of hearts without truly knowing the true depth of it behind its false cordiality and assurance. His certainty almost frightened her in a way. Because as there was confidence, it had an underlying madness embedded in it. And it, as long as it thrived in this dangerous chase, kept her alive at the moment.

"You're not as noble as you think."

It was a low blow. She hadn't been the kind of person to resort to petty insults but she was uncomfortable and humiliated. Any sort of means to relieve her from that frustration is welcome and it was more than likely she would be more spiteful than grateful.

To her surprise and dismay, he smiled at her words.

"I know," he said, pleased. "But does it matter anyway?"

Natsuo was at a loss of words.

He tucked her in with a thick blanket, a cottony warmth spreading all over her form. It was then he stood and she didn't bother glancing up at him. "I'll find something for you to wear. I do suggest you don't exert yourself," he advised; that mild, almost laughing tone of his rang its way to her ears. "A doctor should arrive shortly."

* * *

 **A/N:** Regarding the confusion, I apologize for that. The timeline in the last chapter is still a continuation of the previous chapter before it. Rather, the confrontation between Natsuo and Dazai wasn't an alternate timeline but the different timeline was Dazai's scene with the businessman. It was supposed to be a flashback of how he's gotten the information about her courier company, just as he stated in Chapter 3: _that he was there for an investigation._


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 05:** **What cannot be repressed**

* * *

"This is recent," said Akiko Yosano, observing the smarting wound on her torso. Her calm eyes flicked a cursory glance at her. "When did you get the wound?" then there was her voice: smooth, composed, and professional, adapting the tone of a well-seasoned physician. It could have further tensed her nerves, if not for the mildness present in her question. Yosano was quite tolerable enough, concluded Natsuo.

Natsuo cleared her dry throat. "A week and a half ago," she almost mirrored the doctor's disposition, inspecting the forming blood clots and the purple-green bruise blooming on her abdomen. With a wince, she continued, "I was admitted in a hospital within that week. I must have reopened it when I was doing an errand. I didn't notice it when I found myself bleeding in the rain."

Yosano carefully brushed her fingers in different positions around the wound, asking measured questions for pain from every prod in which she obediently voiced out her reply. Natsuo heard her mutter something along the lines like _'no broken bones'_ and _'no internal bleeding'_ though the rest had been mentally ticked off in her list of potential ills. "Fortunately, there isn't much to worry about," she stated, sounding hopeful. "I can close it up and bandage it for you. Dazai has already disinfected it. It'll heal in due time though I'd recommend you move less to avoid further aggravation. It'd be best if you stay off your feet and you should rest here for the time being."

"What?" Natsuo nearly shot up from the couch, flinching from the action. "I-I can't stay here."

Her hand gently clapped her shoulder for assurance. "I understand," Yosano said, earnest. "But you can't risk yourself for reopening the wound again. I'm sure Dazai won't mind if your condition demands it."

The thought horrified her so much that she hadn't realized that the doctor had started to tend her lesion.

 _No, no, no, no . . . I can't be here. Under his supervision. I still have to—_

"If you don't mind me asking," Yosano began, "how did you get this?"

Natsuo paused. Stared blankly.

Her mouth opened—

"There was a shootout," spoke Dazai, standing insouciantly behind them, arriving in precise, crucial timing from an empty corner. He smiled his disarming smile. She could tell how much he loved to divulge exposition. "Just a small feud between warring gangs. It just so happens she'd managed to catch herself in the crossfire," and then a casual shrug, "just as she told me awhile ago."

Natsuo blanched.

She stretched her lips into a taut line.

In the dense silence, they were staring at her in a manner she always hated, like she was some fascinating creature. Natsuo was almost at the brink of losing her patience and perhaps some whit of her sanity. There was something dangerous from the glint in his eye as he welded in the background, a spectator in the dark.

"Is that so? Did this happen?" Yosano had only concreted that the cruel piece of lie as the final verdict.

Natsuo didn't look at the both them. There was only one answer. It was his answer.

To her great astonishment, her voice was remarkably unaffected. "Yes."

Natsuo curled her hands into quivering fists, knuckles bulging out of paling skin. It didn't matter what Yosano perceived in her reaction, be it doubt or sympathy. In some twisted way, Dazai would have smiled—of course, not at the moment—but somehow in another occasion, and it wouldn't be the typical, blithe grin he usually sported. It would have been the morally ambiguous one, the one that simply made her skin crawl.

She couldn't see him now though she could feel his smugness behind her back; a small scale scheme gone according to plan, basically child's play.

Nursing a wounded ego, she was furious.

The least thing she wanted was his charity, and as battered as her pride was she would do everything in her power to not earn a whit of it.

—

It was three in the morning.

Everything was saturated with cold blue hues, immersing his apartment in shadows and shapes that can mislead the eye, coupled with an enduring silence that simply begged to be broken. He was waiting, skulking in the background like a villain about to perform his dramatic cue. His eyes were trained on the clock, hands winding. He could almost hear ticking even if it wasn't really there.

Dazai began tapping his pointer finger.

 _One, two, three . . ._

And there she was, reckless woman that she was. He liked her for it. It served some bit of amusement for him.

Wearing his best smile, he said aloud, "Shame," he began, startling her. "I thought you'd stay a little longer."

In that distance, the room around them was a blur and Natsuo was nothing short to a disfigured form blending around her surroundings, making herself invisible. But from where she was, that one silvery beam of light from the window streaked her eyes; they were pale, vicious, _glorious_. Even as he sat in the comfort of his recliner, he felt the hair behind his neck stand up. It was chilling. It was wonderful.

This state of unease, where all pretenses are left bare.

He remained composed and precise. Patient, as he wanted to be reckoned. Every bit the antagonist she'd love to hate. "You didn't actually consider that I'd not know that you're planning to leave, do you?"

There was a long sigh. It was one full of disdain.

"But I will eventually."

"Eventually," he repeated slowly. "Of course."

"I'm not going to stay here."

"And you won't."

Dazai was certain he heard her make a small noise at the back of her throat although he couldn't make out what expression it meant; she was far too swaddled in shadow to scrutinize properly, much to his dismay. Frankly, he couldn't deny the itching desire to flick open the lights, expose the structured lines on her forehead, her creased brows, her lips . . . but it meant breaking the momentum between them and he wouldn't really want that.

Pale gray eyes no longer glowered at him. They were gawking at some far corner, contemplative and addled in its trance. She went silent, mulling probably. Then he found himself in the same spell. Those eyes, how bright and expressive they were yet so effortlessly manipulating. This distance between them meant nothing. A word, a glare—everything he knew about this rotting world of dream could end. Somehow he found himself anxiously anticipating.

She took a step back and then she was gone from his periphery.

"You're," Natsuo began, "not going to stop me?"

His ears perked at her response. Then there was the soft rhythm of her footfalls, careful and steady as a heartbeat.

 _Thud, thud, thud._

He didn't realize—until later—that he hadn't toned down the mirth in his voice. Or the elated grin on his face.

The words that slipped pass his mouth didn't come out as a question. "You expect me to stop you."

 _Thud_. _Click._

Then a sharp gasp.

With a flick, the desk lamp next to him lit in an eerie glow. It wasn't glaringly bright but it sufficed enough to illuminate them both, seizing up each other with a stare. She looked uncertain, somewhat mortified and distrusting as she was backed up against the door. The knob was already twisted and he could see a thin gap at its edge. It was simple enough to run away and be done with it, but she didn't do it. She stood there like a deer caught in headlights, as if she was waiting for him to pounce at her the moment she stepped out.

She slid her foot back and—

"I don't advise that."

Immediately, she uttered, "Why?"

Dazai collected himself, betraying his hankering for a gratifying bedlam. "Well, for one, I'd loath to have to drag you here again," he reasoned. "Since you're barely healing."

Then a wicked smile curled his lips, emitting out a mocking snort. His cheek leaned on his knuckles too casually. "Unless, of course, you must have mapped out something," his tone was compelling and amused, perfected to jab, _to insult_. "Perhaps, you have. Regardless, as I've told you I won't stop you,"

His parting words ended with a bait. "You're free to act as you will."

And she saw through his rationality. Incensed. Imploding in her silence. He could tell the bloodlust in her eyes, how she wanted to barrel at him and wring him to death. Hook, line, and sinker.

Grudgingly, she turned her back behind him, shutting the door closed, and sighed under her breath.

" _. . . one of these days—_ "

"What was that?" he asked innocently.

She turned back to face him, her bearings chiseled to appear apathetic. "I change my mind," she deadpanned, and padded to his cupboard, rummaging his personal storage. He craned his neck for a peek, as he was completely oblivious of her actions, daring to think if she was still sane in the first place. Raising a bottle of brandy, she declared, "and I'll keep this."

Then she left him in the room alone.

 _Out of spite, hm?_

Belatedly, he called out, "Mind sharing that?"

—

"I don't," she began, "owe you anything."

Natsuo stared at him with those pale gray eyes, bared of those tasteless blue-tinted glasses.

Dazai had to admit that without her usual getup in leather and denim, currently donning an over-sized shirt and a pair of sweatpants that hung too low on her hips, the change rendered her an entirely different person. However what certainly earned his profound surprise was that it came with a tedious persona that had the charisma of roadkill, refusing to speak or move, dead inside and out. Perfectly _harmless_. If this was intentional, she was certainly doing a stellar job at it.

He could only grant her a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I never said you are."

She sighed, shuffling a little from his—unwashed, bloodied—sofa. Her fingers idly began to twine on her hair.

Her head leaned on the backrest, tilting her face up to the ceiling. "Then what do you want?"

 _That's not a question you should casually ask._

"Answers."

He marveled at the particular vein in her reaction; the mild irritation in her creased brows, the furtiveness in her gaze, the resignation in her sharp exhales, and the particular rise of her shoulders. So tense, so pent-up, that he wouldn't give a second thought as to why she always struggled to breathe.

Despite that, he regarded it with a sense of familiarity as if he had known her for years, almost intimately, in spite of how few and short-lived their interactions were. Nonetheless, in his frank opinion, those aspects had livened the blandness of her overt impassivity with the faintest color of raw emotion. Angry was a little better on her if it's the only thing he had to deal with. He'd preferred that over the shell of a tightlipped encumbrance.

"Oh, come now, it's not that hard to answer, no?" he prompted, pestering her still. "What's the color of your hair?"

This time, she replied petulantly, "Apparently, fake blond."

He chuckled at that.

"I meant your real hair color."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

Natsuo sent him a more impassioned glare, regaining that composure she had perfected for the following days. "Because this is unnecessary," she blurted, as if the reason had been the most obvious answer.

Her arm stretched awkwardly, laying bare its pale skin and white traces of old gashes over the rolled back sleeve, as her hand glided over the roots of her blond hair. He had seen them before—those scars etched on her arms and torso; faint wound scars he could familiarize from the graze of a bullet or a switchblade. The sheer discomfort of her face back then caught some grain of his sympathy and he had given some afterthought why she had appeared a tad too pallid and overdressed, other than having to undergo the pretenses of a different identity.

Sneaking a terse glance at his direction, she consciously lowered her arm, tugged down her sleeve. She looked a little disarrayed, a little confused, beneath her facade. Clearing her throat, she broached testily, "Shouldn't you be doing something else?"

Playing along, he simply grinned. "Well, I can't necessarily leave you alone."

Albeit her open aggression towards him, he hadn't minded the whole ordeal of it—did it count as one if he found it somewhat delighting?—as he lolled back on the couch next to her, his arms propped on the backrest. Completely nonchalant of the fact that she could tackle him in his low guard and strangle him for the sake of it. That wasn't such a bad idea either. "You're just lying around in my couch for the whole day," he commented good-naturedly. There had been something so ironically humorous in his words that might have actually made him burst into a fit of laughter—even when he didn't, he tucked it away with an amused smirk. "Might as well do something than loaf around."

She chuffed, letting her fingers drum on the cushion. "You don't know how much I'd love to walk straight to the door and leave."

"You're not much of an indoor person, are you?" Dazai japed lightly, but if he had to give it some consideration, she really wasn't.

To his surprise, she actually humored him. "No, I'm not."

"Your ability," he went on carefully, "what do you call it?"

Then there came her immediate hesitation.

"Does it have to be named?"

"Not necessarily,"

"Then I don't have to."

"But you've never considered it?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Calling it just _mind-control_ doesn't exactly sound appealing."

"Well, that's just it. Mind-control," there was an edge in her tone, a small tremble and harshness in the syllables. Then she took a moment of recess, reflecting from lapses upon lapses of silence; her eyes possessed a flicker of an old flame from a memory and he could see that she was struggling again. "It's nothing but . . . grotesque."

Grotesque, what a word. He had to ponder why she had chosen that adjective for that kind of ability in the first place.

Natsuo snapped out from her stupor a few seconds later. "Forget what I said," she muttered, regretting her offhand confession. "It shouldn't matter . . ."

Then she was about to regress back to that deadpan persona, if not for his intervention, when he stumbled upon an epiphany.

His voice was evenly calm. "So you hate your ability."

The assumption struck her so much that she gawked at him, petrified in horror.

"I—" she closed her mouth, catching her words before she'd regret uttering them aloud. "I'm not having this conversation with _you_."

"And you're not denying it," he pressed on stubbornly. "Is it something about your ability specifically?"

Her hand was curled into a fist, knuckles flushing white. "Cut that out."

"Did you _do_ something with your ability that's gotten you upset, perhaps?"

"Stop it."

"Or did you commit a mistake?"

" _I said stop it!_ "

Time blurred in the midst of unwarranted turmoil, and all at once, Dazai then realized their close proximity as they stood, breath against breath. His hand firmly grasped her wrist and his instinct to use his ability had overridden him once he held her in her outburst. She was suspiring with her parted mouth—he could feel its warm rush through its perpetual back and forth—and her eyes were red-rimmed and nearly at the verge of spilling hot tears.

Ah. There it was again. That vulnerability. That weakness.

He knew he was guilty of her upset emotional state of being, but he couldn't deny the closeness of validation in his reach, just a blink away from disclosing vital knowledge about the mystery that was Natsuo. The hinge had apparently executed its cruel part, having it all slip away from his fingers and dissolve into dust once more. Constant disappointment hadn't served him well and it was already taking a toll in his behavior, in his compulsion and his rationale. He was more than motivated to push her limits when he could solve the conundrum that he built around her, coming out of him as a natural, cruel inclination.

Yet as much as he wanted to believe that had been the sole reason for his fixation, there was that niggling part of him that knew it was partly a lie, some cover-up for something more deep and disturbing than the surface. He fancied the prospect of her as a lie, a criminal—selfishly, he wanted to believe he was _right_ , as he always was and always would be—and that she wasn't as human and broken as he thought of her to be.

Eventually, she grew into a bad addiction for him and he still appealed advertently to it with much enthusiasm.

And as dismayed as she was, he found himself in that miserable circle.

Natsuo didn't outright reject his touch even though he could tell she craved release; though there was something misting in her eyes and it wasn't just the prickling tears and distraught—it was something else, something personal and haunting, and whatever it was gravely affected her. However certain of her distress, he guided her back down the couch to sit on and averted her mind from what seemed to plague her thoughts.

When she had regained some part of herself, she glowered at him with newfound indignation. "Leave me alone," she spat in a low, threatening octave, "or I'll do it myself."

It would be foolish to argue, he reckoned. Deciding it was best to retreat, he respected her request thus he left her behind in privacy.

—

"You're not actually going to finish that?"

"Psshhh, w-why not?"

"You're miserably drunk," Dazai sighed as she heartily had another swig of the liquor bottle, which she took pleasure in pillaging his storage again. "Alcoholism doesn't suit you, Natsuo. You don't look as dignified when you are."

Natsuo was laughing, sputtering from an interval of hiccups; the strange thing was it almost sounded like a sob. "I . . . I'm not _drunk_!" she slurred, her voice thick with intoxication. "Never ever drunk."

He sent her an incredulous look. "Have you convinced yourself that?" he closed himself near her, separating her from the bottle. "Come on, up you go. It's late. You have to get some rest."

She whined pettily for a good solid minute though soon complied to his bidding when he managed to make her rise from her chair—tripping pathetically in the process—and lean her weight onto him, as he draped her arm around his shoulders. _You're embarrassing yourself. It's actually kind of sad, Natsuo_ , he thought as if she they were having a conversation in his mind, and almost impishly considered recording how much of a bibulous mess she was just for kicks. _You aren't really doing yourself a favor with this._

Her head tilted to the side and he could feel her sigh fan his neck. "Can you," she tried to retain a clearer voice, "can . . . you remove an ability?"

Dazai stopped, mulling over her question.

"I don't believe I have that kind of ability, unfortunately."

Her head dropped glumly, almost reminding him of a dejected child.

"Oh."

Then there was that dispirited tone. He preferred brushing it aside.

Eyes glazed, she went on: "You know, I-I think I'm tryin' too hard."

He hummed. "On what?"

There was a slow, sad smile on her lips, and she must have meant it. "Pretending I'm normal."

As they trudged to the couch, he sent her a considering look. Of all things, he didn't like to handle an inebriate. How troublesome. "You're normal," as he carefully placed her down with the cushions, he affected a smile. "You're a normal drunk."

Snorting, she hit him on the arm. "Don't lie . . ."

"I'm not."

He decidedly sat next to her, the length of her body pressing against his side. Frankly, he was getting accustomed to this—this position, side by side by this feckless woman. Then, he realized he hadn't been in close contact with someone for awhile, someone's skin against his, the feel of warm flesh and blood and pulse. It didn't particularly bother him; it's just that he didn't remotely care to think about it.

However sitting next to the person who might just wish for his death did evoke strings of different, complicated emotions from him that flowed like the lifeblood in his veins. Some disturbing, some pleasant, like every eventual blip in the world that comes by.

He hadn't felt so much ever since his past tragedies had occurred—he's a bit numb, but it'd pass anyway—and he was just waiting, sometimes. Waiting for her to just thrust a knife at his back when he wasn't looking. And when she's done stabbing him, he then wondered with wishful thinking if it would actually hurt him because he was really hoping for a terrible hemorrhage, some broken bones, and maybe a swollen, busted lip. Just the brand of sweet vengeance that would get him hospitalized for months, or perhaps, not at all.

This won't happen, of course. Though, he'd still welcome her to try.

Her head lolled from the backrest, locks brushing against his shoulder. There's hair on her eyes, and with a one-shoulder shrug, he didn't repress the urge to push them back.

She was staring at him. "Hmm, sometimes . . . I wish I hadn't met you."

Smiling pleasantly, he spoke in his casual voice, "Did you now?" he mulled if she was intending to threaten him in this stupor. _Maybe you should go screw yourself, Dazai_ , he half-expected her to hiss out. "Do you hate me that much?"

Natsuo shook her head in disagreement. "You seem nice," she mumbled clumsily. "I'm not supposed to meet . . . someone . . . ni—" and then before she could ever finish her sentence, she leaned comfortably back in sleep, letting the unwitting words die from her mouth.

He distastefully recalled that old Latin phrase. _In vino veri_ —oh, bother. Regardless of what she had spoken, it wasn't a solid confession that should deter him of his previous thoughts so he preferred disregarding them.

She was supposed to be so restively guarded around him and he expected her to be a bit less negligent. He sighed wearily, wondering why he even issued entertaining his musings of her insobriety. It's simply her choice to be drunk, but that had been the crux of the matter. Because what he couldn't grasp was that she was comfortable enough to get herself drunk around him.

—

Last night she had come to a final decision. Dazai didn't make the effort to stop her and it didn't bother him just as much. She could make herself disappear but trouble had always been her curse—and that is where he'll know where she'll be.

The string of connection they had was complicatedly tangled and the prospect of it getting cut was far too unlikely to come.

The file of Yuriko Kirino still lay atop on his coffee table, brandishing its bold typewritten words beneath the photograph: _MISSING PERSON_. Before he could steal a sip from his coffee, there were loud, urgent knocks on his door. Leaving the comfort of his recliner, he padded towards the door and—unsurprisingly—he met Kunikida's scowl. He would have slided a quick jab about it like he usually does, but dismissed the thought when he noticed the grave look in his narrowed eyes.

Dazai greeted politely, "Good morning."

"Why were you fooling around with a woman for the past week?" Kunikida demanded.

Then again, Dazai was starting to wonder whether there had already been a rumor circulating around his absences—not that his absences were such a rare matter per se. There was always a creative one whenever he was out. He assumed Yosano had fun twisting the truth. "So you've heard," he gave him an easy grin, which further vexed the man at his doorstep. "How about we continue this inside?" He gestured the door, opening it welcomingly.

After having invited him in his apartment, Dazai told him, "There seems to be something else you came here for."

Kunikida exhaled a heavy, frustrated sigh. He pushed his glasses up, stamped a bit more pressure in them that he could spot the reddening spectacle marks on the bridge of his nose. "There's a problem," he said, unfolding the newsprint before him. "Look at this. The front page."

It didn't take him long to register the headlines of the latest newspaper article.

Nobu Hideyoshi committed suicide.

* * *

 **A/N:** Yes, I said in my last author's note that I'll update last week. Uh . . . sorry?

A bit filler-ish but consider this as development and they'll be taking some long time apart after this. For the meantime, take this a breather for what's to come (oh look, a cliffhanger!). Things will get more intense at this point. My pacing is still awkward and I'm getting a bit rusty in my writing— _and_ I know I should stop fretting about it but I hope Dazai wasn't completely OOC in this (this was the hardest chapter I've encountered in his POV so far). As usual, thank you for those who support the story! I hope you enjoyed this one!


	6. Chapter 6

**Warning:** Implications of PTSD, graphic scenes, alcohol abuse, and language.

 **A/N:** Mispelled Kyouka for Kouka. Thank you Yunrii for pointing it out!

* * *

 **Chapter 06:** **What is hidden**

* * *

"What do you mean it's a cover-up?"

Atsushi hadn't disguised his confused tone with that of professionalism, belatedly reproaching himself for it. Kyouka had made her stone-faced reaction evidently constant, her tentative silence contrasting his outburst. With this realization in hand, he had resolutely maintained his calm—at least, a senior-worthy calm to impress upon his partner—and focused his attention to important matters.

After learning Nobu Hideyoshi's involvement with the Black Hood from Dazai, Atsushi was almost confident in solving the case: the Black Hood's ominous bombing threats. He could claim there was some kind of progress, disenabling two bombs from two remote places in Yokohoma; however before he could call it a day and label it an officially finished case, the motive remained suspiciously vague.

 _Because there wasn't one_ , Atsushi thought, brows furrowed. _Or at least nothing close to what we've suspected as of yet._

" _It's as if the whole case is a ruse_ , _"_ was Kunikida's deduction, and Atsushi couldn't have said it any better than himself.

It was uncharacteristic for the Black Hood, or perhaps any kind of armed gang at all, to act without gain, and although the prospect of armed gangs wreaking havoc for sport wasn't far-fetched, it was out of the question when it involved arson and craftily hiding explosives in old warehouses. In connection to the elusive Verdugo, it only solidifies the syndicate's hand behind the bombings.

At most, the feather in their cap would be having learned that during the day Atsushi had disenabled the bombs; coincidentally Nobu Hideyoshi had committed suicide the following day after.

Nobu Hideyoshi, successful businessman, illegal arms dealer, and a man of many criminally suspicious associations.

 _There has to be a connection._

Taking their lead, Dazai stated, "We can only claim it's a suicide," before he could finish his sentence, he stopped in front of a door blocked with barricade tape. There was a capable-looking officer next to the door, likely stationed there to guard it. After Dazai showed his detective badge and uttered a short message from Minoura, they were permitted to go inside after a brief inspection. Atsushi shot a side-glance at Kyouka, assuming her presence had caught the officer's skepticism, which was— _actually_ —perfectly reasonable.

Stepping inside the crime scene, Dazai continued on: "However it's difficult finding enough concrete evidence that it isn't."

His eyes pulsed wide in disbelief. "What you're saying is that Hideyoshi died because of . . ."

Kyouka deadpanned, "Murder."

Atsushi stared at the girl who had appeared too eerily placid in her confirmation. He then revert his gaze back at Dazai.

"How—"

"It's you two," the voice was familiar and it belonged no one other than Minoura; next to him was his new subordinate. His brows were permanently furrowed and his shoulders slumped to his sides when he flatly added: "again."

Dazai was all smiles. "Why, if it isn't Minoura-san."

Minoura wasn't one for pleasantries thus greetings were casually dismissed. As his eyes inspected them—pointedly to Kyouka, the recently dubbed "President's granddaughter". Pushing aside an offhand comment, he appended, "So Detective Ranpo isn't part of the case."

"He's indisposed at the moment."

Minoura nodded. "Kitamura," he called over, receiving a folder from the female officer. "Here's the copy of the documents you asked."

Taking initiative, Atsushi accepted the folder from his hands after muttering a word of gratitude.

"There's nothing strange in his autopsy test," Minoura supplied towards his senior. "Just a bullet on the side of his skull."

Atsushi nearly winced from his tone. _A bullet on his skull_. He'd known what it looked like, what it _felt_ like against tissue and bone, though he doubted he'd ever cease cringing at the mention of violence or gore, simple as a bullet it may be. It was painful and he wouldn't be none the wiser.

Clearing his thoughts, Atsushi recalled his interrupted question. "How can you tell," he fixated his gaze on Dazai, "that this isn't a suicide?"

All eyes were on the man in question. Suspecting, skeptical eyes.

With an insouciance that remained unmarred from the tension in their circle, Dazai suggested, "I suppose a dissection would be needed, no?" his voice cut into the silence, the thick, unspoken smother of intrigue and apprehension, like butter. "You could join along with us, Minoura-san," after sharing a look with the said officer, his attention directed to his subordinate, never forgetting to deck his smile with effortless charm: "and the lovely Kitamura-san as well." He winked at her, inciting a blush on her face.

Atsushi felt thankful of Kunikida's absence; his senior would have earned a heated reprimand for that move of his. However dismissing Minoura for lenient wasn't a smart approach as he initiated a loud, abrupt clearing of his throat, instilling needed professionalism.

There was a tick of impatience in Minoura's face. "Your deduction, Dazai-san?"

Dazai affected a smile. "Of course. Well, first of all, we'll start with what makes it a suicide. What backs it up is the unlicensed gun and his handwritten will," his speculative eyes trained at Atsushi. "Where's the gun placed at?"

Realizing he had the folder on his arms, Atsushi hastily shuffled through the pages and then finally found the taken pictures; Hideyoshi on his desk bleeding profusely, the gun, etcetera. He examined it closely.

"His right hand."

"Precisely," Dazai remarked. "Usually right-handed people would wear their watches on their left hand though his is on his right hand. Also having ink stains on his left hand from writing would mean that Hideyoshi is definitely left-handed."

As he listened, Atsushi sent a considering glance at Kyouka and then offered the file to her, which she accepted with sharp, clinical eyes. Eyes, he knew this time, that belonged to a highly-trained assassin. His attention returned back to Dazai—always measured and informed—and mused that he must have studied the case beforehand. Of course, he did.

"It wouldn't make sense for someone who'll want to kill himself to use his dominant hand however he hadn't," Dazai explained, "which would mean the culprit's mistake."

"But he was alone in his office until midnight," Minoura contradicted, arms folded. "The video footage confirms it."

Atsushi piped in. "Unless it's tampered with?"

"It isn't," Dazai claimed confidently, "but he wasn't alone."

Despite the older officer's doubts, there was some degree of interest from the crook of his brows. Everyone anticipated.

Dazai remained unfazed, expounding further: "This leads to the prospect of how the murderer went inside without being noticed."

Noticing the girl next to him separate herself away from them, his eyes were trained on her mutely trod to the adjacent restroom, and as bemused as Atsushi was of her sudden behavior, he was certain that she'd been following her instinct.

Once Kyouka ceased her tracks and twisted the knob—which did compel Minoura to raise his voice and bluntly state out his disapproval—Atsushi gravitated to her side and followed her glare to the ventilation window; a square tilting window above the toilet seat and from its glass, it shone a crystalline light that vaguely presented itself as a beacon.

Soon after, the rest trailed after them to inspect his partner's recent discovery.

Atsushi sniffed. "That's odd."

Hand creeping at his handgun, Minoura asked in a low, furtive tone, "What is it?"

 _Nothing dangerous_ , Atsushi thought. _Just . . . odd._ He took a tentative step forward. "There's a faint scent here," his sensitive nose inhaled, "like gravel. Dry cement, maybe."

And there was also that delicate scent mingled in there. Hideyoshi's office had a distinct smell, and that one hadn't belonged to those blends of scents; it smelt of the outdoors, from a construction site, not like an air-conditioned private room. He walked towards the ventilation window, where it was strongest.

There was a skeptical stare from Kitamura. Though Atsushi expected Minoura to have a similar reception to his enhanced senses, the officer had been quietly observing him with eyes laden of experience and reticent approval, as he appeared to have figured it all out on his own. The inquiries weren't brought up and so was the doubt.

"The murderer could have climbed at the back and pushed himself inside the window," Dazai deduced as he neared the said window. "It isn't locked either."

"It could be a woman or a man of small stature," Minoura joined in the speculation, and then after a sigh, he affirmed: "in the case of your kind, it could be anyone with the right ability."

Atsushi queried, "Minoura-san, what time did Hideyoshi die?"

"Somewhere between twelve-forty and one in the morning."

Midnight would have offered the right leverage for the murder to be executed. Outside the edifice was a row of warehouses and a quiet, low-key environment. Undoubtedly, this must be pre-calculated.

Curling his hand into a fist, Atsushi proposed, "Wouldn't this suffice as probable evidence?"

"No."

The glow of hope that radiated in his eyes may have been dispelled when all went silent from that one fatal word from his senior's mouth.

"Not without finding who the culprit is," Dazai spoke, affectedly somber but still detached, still invariably impassive from the homicide. "With a man like Hideyoshi, it isn't simple to track one down. There are too many possible suspects."

Minoura cleared his throat. "He's right," was his reluctant response. "The murder weapon should be the gun though it's only covered with Hideyoshi's fingerprints. It couldn't be that simple."

Atsushi steeled his resolutions. "But how about the culprit's mistakes? The left hand and we could use the window."

"The left hand could be overlooked," Minoura explained pragmatically, giving way to a sigh. "The window didn't have any scruff marks either. When we were here, it was clean. Must have been wiped." Then—just barely—his teeth clenched. "Our culprit knows how to clear his tracks."

There was something more in his clipped opinion from aged, repressed walls that feel distinctly good. There's a weariness and a blaze in the pupil of his eye that's just as youthful as he might have been once in his yesteryears. It must be conviction and a sense of justice.

Minoura was that kind of man, Atsushi noted. He'd been afraid at first that he would instead argue over the alleged suicide to be false. The officer had been one of the many policemen to brush aside ability-users in the police force; a product from the rift between two forces from the same side. However from what he had witnessed so far, he'd been relieved and a little glad of his cooperation.

Though there had been something else that did convince the close-minded officer.

Atsushi took a quick glance at Dazai from the corner of his eye.

If he wasn't in the mood for his shenanigans, Dazai was very composed and smooth-spoken. There was a telling air around him, an acute edge that made his words feel reasonable and credible, and one couldn't help but listen at the sound of his voice. He could tell you the most outrageous tale and you'd find yourself believing him from the fluent tip of his tongue.

Atsushi was always attentive in his scrutiny and he was aware of his senior's skill to draw in people seamlessly, like moths to a flame. Innate charisma or practiced eloquence? There should be something where it came from. As much he deeply respected and admired him, there were times that there was very little to trust in his words and very little to expect from his genuineness.

No one could ever tell what always lurked within his thoughts. He was just that good at it.

"I'm sorry," Kitamura interrupted. "But why must the culprit make his kill elaborate?"

Minoura darted his inquisitive eyes on her. "What do you mean, Kitamura?"

"Well, if it's just a murder," Kitamura stated, thumb cupping her chin. "Why try to make it a suicide at all?"

"As we all know Nobu Hideyoshi's murderer could be anyone of his previous or current associates," was her reasoning. "If that's the case, it would still be just as difficult who to track down."

"You're right, Kitamura-san," Dazai agreed with her. "It's too elaborate for a simple murder. Everything here, you can tell, appears rather set-up."

His brown eyes were calculating—and if one could tell, darker. "It looks too clean and meticulous, the clues too small but obvious. There's a clearing here, isn't it? This was deliberate," his lips twisted into a smile and it wasn't like any of the other ones he'd worn before. "It's like the murderer's way of calling out for attention."

Atsushi flinched. There was something about his smile that made the hairs of his back stand. He couldn't pinpoint what it was though, perhaps, it must have been the curve of his lips, cut on his face too wide and sharp; stretching out like a crack of broken glass.

What got him in cold sweat was how it almost felt _sincere_.

Before Atsushi could question his gut instinct, he had to muse if he heard his senior correctly. Was his tone truly unaffected? It'd retained some hint of solemnness, some brand of unusual confidence, and something far too unpredictable, unheard of—motivation.

Atsushi could hear Minoura mutter under his breath, _'that sick bastard'_ , and try as he might, attempt to school his bearings into that of sophistication. After exhaling a deep breath, the officer stated, "If that's it . . ." he said roughly, pressing his lips together. "I know this is your case and as much as I'd like to take it from your hands, I won't do it."

Minoura eyes narrowed resolutely. "But if you need help, I'll offer it if you ask," he sighed again and his subordinate called him out of concern in which he returned a shake of his head. "If you'll excuse us, detectives."

Dazai nodded. "We appreciate it. We'll come to you if we need it."

Atsushi bowed his head gratefully.

After exchanging a few words, the pair left taciturnly.

"Apparently, your case coincides with mine," Dazai clapped a hand on his shoulder. "We'll have to work together again, eventually."

—

"Is that so? You can tell me about it when you come back. Yes, yes, I understand. Later then," Dazai proposed to Kunikida over the phone, hearing an affirmative from the other line. "Oh! And remember to bring that bleach and arsenic on your way so that I—"

His partner hung up on him just like that. Then again, that _was_ Kunikida. Dazai chuckled. It was a harmless joke though he wouldn't mind if he really did buy him those items for him. Bleach was fine. Arsenic, however, he would give a pass. He didn't fancy the thought of dying slowly through an agonizing stomach pain and diarrhea.

"You're usually bored stiff."

Dazai hadn't really expected to meet him here. Judging from the hour and the nearby confectionary, he must have been in his noontime break.

"Am I?" said Dazai in deliberate, innocent tones, but the smile, a purposeful faux-pas in itself, had been incriminating. "Well, it's an interesting case."

Lollipop on his mouth, Ranpo shrugged.

Albeit the show of nonchalance, Dazai did note that his senior was genuinely curious; a silent nod of agreement for his part.

The case had presented itself as a gift box of sorts, dolled-up with bright ribbons on the surface, while inside of it consisted of a pile of cut-up, bloody entrails from an unknown victim. The alleged suicide had an underlying promise of threat, a soon-to-be string of homicides in the making, and Dazai could almost taste the blood and decay in the air.

As an exceptional detective, Ranpo might as well have felt it too.

Obnoxiously crunching on his candy, he shared in a conspirator's whisper, "There's this rumor going around," his eyes peered at him with sharp eyes that could cut throats like a switchblade; there was a reckoning, a winding of gears. "That you've been hiding a girlfriend."

His eyes popped open in surprise. He tamped the urge to laugh. That was priceless. "I wouldn't really call it like that," his lips crooked into a knowing smile, "but close enough."

—

Natsuo couldn't really remember the first time she held a gun.

Had it been eighteen—fifteen—maybe, twelve? She couldn't tell.

However the memory of it on her palm was still fresh, like spilt blood on the pavement; the feel of its cruel metal against her callouses, its weight anchoring her down.

Her hand was steady, for a while unshaken, and the gun on her fingers was directed on someone's forehead. She didn't like looking on the nameless victim's face for too long; that way it just contorts, a perfect mix of distress and desperation that ought to be enough to evoke some sliver of pity. Then there came the sobs and the pleads and the pathetic display of clinging to the inevitable—all hopeless desperation, as they bid their prayers to some god that they don't actually believe in—and, well, it only took a trigger to silence it all, or the other way.

Just at that critical point, before pulling the trigger, she would lose a piece of herself. Bit by bit. Because if she did, she'd shake again, she knew. In a moment of inhumanity— _bang!_

Dead eyes and whimpering nothings, all thrown against the wind. Then after some hours later she'd empty out all that repulse and guilt in the form of bile and wash it all away with alcohol and restless nights; paranoia eating her mind like maggots in a rotting brain, filling it with haunting images of wax-like corpses in body bags. If it's that simple to take a life, she wouldn't doubt she'd find herself in a body bag, too.

It sent nightmares run amok and she could almost feel herself tear apart through a scream. Ironically, salvation then manifested from the metaphorical two-ton weight of a gun and she'd heave it up to position, with light pressure on the trigger and a harsh _click_ —

Then static. Long, droning static.

She was alone.

In a cold room with a cold gun and a cold motive.

And it was only a matter of time she'd laugh hysterically of how maddened she'd been, but she didn't. Her fingers traced the tiles of the floor, on the spidery crack that stretched out to her like a hand; vaguely, she almost thought it was going to wrap around her when she's off-guard and pin her down the ground for god-knows-when. Her back was pressed against the wall, her skin burning and thawing by the frigid, damask wallpaper.

A bit hazed, Natsuo glanced around and everything was dark and private and real. More real than her mind had behaved. She felt a bit flighty, lightheaded. Her nose pinched. It smelled dank, a lot like discount alcohol and something old and rotting under the bed.

When the back of her hand slid down from her lap and came in contact with something cool, she froze. Then she noticed the empty cheap liquor bottles next to her. A sigh gave way from her mouth, but the palpitating of her chest never ceased. Something about that icy touch disturbed her within and it reminded her of—

" _You're not stealing from me again, are you? I give you too much slack."_

Her mouth muttered a string of vehement curses, vitriol like acid on her tongue. She closed her eyes shut, dry and exhausted. _He's not here. He's not here_ , she kept repeating though the feel of him still clung to her, almost as if he wrought himself around her, touched her, even if he wasn't really there, even if it was just a figment of her imagination. It was . . . unpleasant.

 _He can't find me_ , she assured, wavering still, until the thrall of self-doubt snared her and the churn of her insides writhed. _Not yet_

Her perspiring forehead leaned against the metal of the gun. Cold, invasive, lethal. _Him_. And then that deep, deep whisper exhausted out the air, the very one that made her iron-plaque soul tremble: _I know._

He didn't. He didn't. He didn't.

He never would.

A terse knock woke her senses astir, and from the fright she instinctively pointed her gun to the door, even if there hadn't been bullets to fire with.

Internally scolding herself to get a fucking grip, she clicked her tongue. _You idiot._

Rising up, she went to the drawer in careful tiptoe and pulled out a gun magazine out of it.

With a maneuver, she loaded her gun and called out warily: "Who is it?"

"It's me."

 _Ryotaro._

Hiding her weapon behind her back, she unlocked the door and twisted the knob.

The man on her doorstep wasn't different from any of her other nightly visitors. Another face, another name; a stranger still. Ryotaro, as she called him because she wouldn't give a damn remembering his actual name, was leaner than the last one, plainer. Plain was a little better, a little normal. He was wearing a dungaree jacket, gun holster strapped on the underarm, flick knife on his pocket. A shooter, that one.

She motioned him inside, and once he did so—robotically—he passed by her, stinking of cigarettes.

She closed the door behind him, flipping the lock. "Any news?"

Standing before her, Ryotaro nodded. "Two days from now. There's going to be a bombing in the old warehouses, the ones for smuggling. Tenma said somethin' about making a little crossfire with the Port Mafia. Orders from the high ups," he explained. "Boss'll be in his turf, safe, highly guarded probably. The plan hasn't changed since then."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing."

She mulled over his words silently. _They're at it again._

Before she could reconsider extracting more information from him, Ryotaro jerked involuntarily, hands roving over his face. "W-what's happening . . ." he grunted out, teeth clenched. "Why am I here? Who the hell are you?" his eyes found hers; they were clear and perplexed with every intention to defend and overpower. He looked like he was about to lunge at her. He might as well whip out his handgun right there and go for the kill.

But she was a bit faster before that would happen.

Instinct took over and she swiftly directed the gun on his chest.

He froze.

 _Concentrate._

" _Look at me._ "

So he did. Mindlessly.

And the surge of his foul history channeled inside her like electric shock. She felt the strong desire to lean down and hurl.

"You get out of this building. Once you leave outside, you'll forget why you ever went here," she ordered. "You'll _forget_ everything you know about me."

She cleared her throat. "Do you understand?"

His mouth opened. "Yes."

Lowering her gun, she opened the door for him.

He left.

She exhaled loudly, leaning against the door. The gun was starting to grow heavier on her palm until it slipped from her hold and the weight may have lessened, even just a bit. She closed her eyes shut, a migraine coming over. _I almost killed him._

If she only had better control on her ability, her situation wouldn't be as difficult.

A groan left her lips. She felt herself break there, felt her skull split in two.

She was digging her grave though not made in a black coffin six feet below the ground but inside a plastic body bag. Mutilated, bullet inside her skull, legs sticking out from a trashcan. They're going to throw her mangled body to the river and let her sink there at the bottom pit. It was insanity all over again only because the gravity of the situation had its cruel repercussions and that reality had been a heartrending contrast to surreal madness.

For it was _real_ and it did happen and it could kill her.

 _Damn, I need a drink._ She staggered to the refrigerator, fishing out a can of beer. It tasted bland, tasted disgusting on her palate, and the smell of it always made her sick. It was a confession she always told herself, just before the heady-scented swill pours down her throat and chokes her senseless. However whenever she found herself eyeing her shitty alcohol, she realized this wasn't really going to be the last one.

She was desperate, so desperate, and her throat was going dry all over again. And just, _drink_ _—_

Intoxication was a small price for respite.

And so she drank.

When she slung her back to the wall, her hand fished the old, crumpled note on the pocket of her pants. Ignoring the blood ringing in her ears, she looked back at the piece of paper in her hand, the address in blotted ink:

 **2-14-10 Kotobukicho**

 **Totsuka-ku, Yokohama**

And just below it, a familiar scrawl.

 _Find me_

* * *

 **A/N:** Er, don't take the address too seriously. My Japanese geography is whack. And I apologize for updating so late with so much exposition. I know it's overanalyzing everything but it was necessary in that scene. And I wanted a redeeming moment for the police. Really, I can't stand it when they're always misinterpreted as incompetent.

Oh my gosh. +100 followers for this story? Thank you so much! Especially the thoughtful reviewers! I can't begin to say how happy and a bit embarrassed I am for that because this didn't even start out as a serious story. For that, I'll try to update as much as I can and oooh, Atsushi, Kyouka and Ranpo makes a cameo. The plot has started so prepare for a wild ride; I kid you not, there'll be a lot of twists and turns from here.

I have to state this out loud: this'll be a bit of a slow burn and it'll be messy. It'll come to together soon, I promise.

As for Dazai, as much as we all love him, let's all admit that he does come off as a bit of a Mary-Sue, no? The latest chapters of BSD and pretty much every successful strategy of his made sure of that. It's been a bit of an issue of mine since I started reading the manga. So I'll try my best humanizing him here and a _lot_ of struggle for his part. I appreciate those who reviewed and said he wasn't OOC, that's really reassuring!

Another thing, I did revise some of the old chapters, especially chapter 5. It's nothing big, really.

So Natsuo has a secret note (and yes, she's in her lowest in this chapter). Now ADA is coming into the spotlight!

All reviews, criticisms, and theories (if you'd like) are very much welcome!


	7. Author's note

Hello, dear readers!

I am sorry if most of you are expecting for a new chapter however I'm not going to update for awhile. Aside from RL, it's just that I've lost my muse in writing this one and that I'm not as invested in BSD anymore, making it rather difficult finishing a chapter. This doesn't necessarily mean that I'm intending to abandon the story. This story will just be undergoing temporary hiatus. I'm revising some parts of it that didn't seem to do well for me, but don't worry, I'm not rewriting everything. Hopefully, I do plan on ending this story at about twenty chapters so that I could finish it as soon as possible.

Admittedly, I don't usually write messages like this if I'm putting something under hiatus, but I just want to sincerely thank those who expressed their appreciation for this story, especially to those who gave criticism. This fic is not really much and I'm just doing this for fun, but it does really put a smile on my face upon knowing someone is reading and enjoying this.

Once I post a new chapter, this message will be deleted. Thank you for understanding.

-Penrose


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